Reasoning

Therapists are funny people. Think about their purpose: you meet a patient with whatever issues, and while your "goal" is to "fix" them, really your goal is to "manage" them and thus ensure that they'll never leave you. It's like, a bastardized "one door closes and another window opens" syndrome in which the patient arrives devestated about a break-up and six months later realizes her brother suffers from acute anxiety disorder and her sister is abusively competitive and her parents avoid it all by drinking, and the relationship was always doomed because the patient never developed the ability to ask for what she wants because she never believed her parents would give it to her. What? No. You date someone and break-up, that sucks. Period. If we try to tie everything together we inevitably get stuck in the cobweb of "connections" -- and like the serpent in Eden, the therapist dares you to try the fruit just once, and bam - you're seeing them twice a week and prescribed multiple pills a day. And I don't even have a sister. What?

May we never fall victim to this.

But, you ask, what if I already have?

So, Pandora's Box is open. Your issues have been laid out on the table and analyzed until you're ready to talk about new ones. Unfortunately, therapists, while sneaky, are genuises. I fell victim years ago - I was having a bad day and this nice man named Dr. something stopped me in the hall and asked if I needed to talk. Before I knew it I was in his office howling about how my friends would never understand me.

The key is to know how to shop for the right person.

1. During sophomore year of college I had a "counselor" (assigned because I was caught drinking underage by Middlebury officials) who was convinced - and nearly convinced me - that the root of all of my problems was that my parents didn't love me, and they didn't love me because they drank.

"But my parents and I are pretty close," I ventured during one of our earlier sessions. (While we had originally been assigned three sessions together, she quickly decided that I was a classic case of oldest-child-of-alcoholics and strongly recommended that we meet through the semester. I was brainwashed. I agreed.)
"You're close because you drink."
"But sometimes we don't drink. Like during the day. They both have pretty good jobs."
"That's because they are functional alcoholics."
"Oh."

This dialogue ensued over a couple months. By the end I not only blamed my propensity toward substances on them, I owed my emerging sexuality to their wino-tendencies. I was not gay, I was repressed from developing the emotional capacity to tell my family that I loved them. Nevermind that my parents both said "I love you" whenever we spoke, or that their friends had a basic blow-by-blow of my major happenings. Clearly, they didn't love me. And, they didn't love me because they drank.

2. My next therapist was so nice I felt like I'd truly been born evil. We all know those people - they smile genuinely, empathy is a way of life, they want you to know that they would never judge you. I don't like them because very few comprehend sarcasm, and they all judge. Secretly. They see those who don't find true beauty in a bikeride as lesser; those who think that a scarlet sunset would be enhanced with a joint as unable to appreciate the land for what it is. They do things like watch the nature channel while spinning. They don't wear heels. They bought organic before it was trendy. They've never blacked out. They've never even greyed-out. Hell, they've never felt bloated from drinking too much. Some haven't even consumed an entire beer before.

This woman empitomized the empathizer. I was in here to deal with depression, or "symptoms matching or alluding to depression," and every session was about finding my chi, and practicing my breathing, and choosing tea over wine.
"But you don't understand," I said more than once, "this isn't just stretching. I'm really not feeling myself."
"Would you like to go over the breathing techniques again?"
"But I'm not anxious."
"Let's work on regaining your core of emotions."
"Like I said, I'm having trouble getting out of bed."
"Are you stretching?"
"And I might fail one of my classes."
"What is your diet like?"
"I can't fall asleep unless I've had a drink or a pill or something."
"Yes, I think we have our problem."
"That I'm marginally suicidal?"
"You're dependent on things outside yourself."

This is why I believe those not limited by religious beliefs or diet should finish at least one beer in their lifetime, and try to improve a mood by means of indulgance. They'll see that while it doesn't truly "work," and deviates from an organic way of life, there's a reason why many of us do it: because it's worth the hour of feeling better. Even if it's just an hour.

3. I found a therapist in New York who I must commend on her ability to pinpoint me. But she's also setting herself up to win. On the first day she asked me if we "love or hate the parents." When I mentioned that previous therapists had questioned my drinking habits, she said "Vermont is not really a fair comparison to New York City. People there can do things that don't involve food or drink. We're not as inventive." In the middle of telling a superflouous and rather nonsenical story (which I do during most sessions), she cut in, "Liz you realize you're paying me, right? Laughing doesn't get you a discount." I like this woman.

**

The moral of the story: A therapist is only good if at no point is their goal to change you. And true genuises don't ever plant ideas in your mind. They convince you that these problems have been here all along. Dormant, waiting for the right inciting incident to emerge and declare themselve insurmountable without professional help. And medication.