Psychotherapy: Fear, Doubt and Apprehension

The waiting game I have been reluctantly playing is coming to an end. I am afraid.

Almost six month ago I was added to the psychotherapy waiting list. At the time I agreed, reasoning that when I got an appointment I would then make the decision whether or not to go. Last week I received a later informing me I have an appointment, now in less than a week’s time.

I had been feeling reasonably ok, up until that fateful letter. Reading it I became awash with fear. My first thought is ‘It’s too late, I’m getting better.’ That is the first lie I tell myself. Over the last few weeks I have relearned the skill of holding it together, keeping it all inside. I spend my days trying to distract myself from me.  When I cannot stop myself from becoming overwhelmed I feel as bad as usual.

Other jumbled thoughts tumble over each other; Do I want to go? Can I do it? Can they help me? Maybe, maybe, maybe…

I went on a walk this morning, past the dreaded place, as I have done many times since receiving the letter. When I went on my first expedition I expected to be confronted by a hospital-like building, but this is just a big old house. I eye its large white front as I approach it. Pausing momentarily, I peer up to its vast expanse. Gazing through the windows, its disguise slightly falters. I see impersonal, harsh, strip lighting. Still, it could just as equally be any public building; a teaching facility, an office. The sign outside gives the place away again, affiliating it with the NHS.

I hope to see someone inside who looks inviting, or even a patient like myself. Really I am watching for normality. I want to see someone who is ‘normal’ going inside. Then, I panic: knowing that if I see someone or something far from normal then I will never make it inside.

Suddenly I feel like I’ve been staring, there, too long to look as if I am just casually passing. I hurry along, glancing back and scanning around me, but I think I’m unobserved. I go home, as fearful as ever.

One of the reasons I am apprehensive is that talking to someone does not feel like it will help me. I have already had a few sessions with a councillor, which was a pretty horrific experience all in all. The day that she discovered I was not coming back, was the only day she did not look at me with fear in her eyes, at a total loss of how to help me. That is the problem, I feel as if there is a misconception that counselling or therapy can only lead to a positive, or at worst, neutral outcome, but that last time it made me feel worse. I hope this isn’t a repeat of last time.

Although, from past experience, it rarely does, talking might help. There has been the occasional time when something has been eating me up inside – the change in the dynamics of a friendship or something I have wanted to say that I have kept inside – that when I have finally said it, it is gone. I do not dwell on it any more. It does not consume me. I worry the things I will have to say in that place will not be like that.

Also, there are two conflicting sides of myself, which I feel will cause problems in therapy. On the one hand, I am brutally honest and, if questioned in the right way, I will not be able to lie. On the other hand, I have spent most of my life hiding; hiding my personality and my true self. How I really feel is usually too much for people and for me. It is easier to hide the fact that things really are this bad. This conflict causes minor problems day to day. If someone questions where I am going or what I am doing, I am forced to tell them, even if it is something stupid which I am embarrassed to tell them. I feel like I am never allowed the courtesy of privacy. I often question if this is why I spend so much of my life in disguise. The only thing I am allowed to hide is myself. I am my own secret.

I am also worried about how, or even if, I should cover my tracks if someone asks where I am going. What if a friend wants to see me that day? What do I say? ‘I have plans,’ is never enough. Most of my friends take that personally to mean ‘I don’t want to see you.’ When I first went to the doctor I had people telling me how ridiculous I was being. How I was wasting my time. They saw it as self-indulgence, instead of pulling myself together and plodding on like everyone else does. Like they have to do. So I’m hiding away until after my first appointment. I might pretend I am visiting my parents, if I really need an excuse. Should I be thinking like this? Is it wrong that I want to feel better than I do now? Is it wrong that I cannot cope?

The real question is: do I want to go? I went to the doctor and the councillor to try and appease others and to prove to them that I really am trying to get better. A quick scan of the enclosed questionnaire suggests that it is unlikely they will send me away with no further appointments. Things may have improved the last few weeks, but apparently I am still not normal.

The dread comes from knowing that I will have to go, regardless of what I want. I will have to actually walk up those steps, sit and wait… then what? Whatever comes next.

The overwhelming fear is that this may be something that, again, makes me feel worse. Therapy, as a concept, undermines my own view that the only person who can truly help me is myself. I hope I’m proved wrong… I think.