I used to think that seeing a therapist was a sign of weakness, a last resort for the needy or helplessly unaware. Convinced that I could lick my own childhood wounds by ripping through enough self-help books or praying for God to grant me peace, for years I felt the pangs of emotional baggage but never even considered stepping foot into a psychologist’s office.
I don’t know if it was a combination of watching enough “Seinfeld” episodes where Elaine treated her routine visit to her therapist as if it was another nail appointment, or the fact that I had gone through my fourth devastating breakup. Perhaps it was sheer fate. But I found myself one Sunday afternoon sitting across from my church singles ward bishop in New York City, weeping and asking him to recommend someone. I had gurgled through the hot tears that I “didn’t want to feel this way ever again.” “This way” had been a sense of being broken, being unlovable, and such an emotional mess that I looked in the mirror and didn’t even recognize the red blotchy face with mascara-running war paint staring back at me.
A couple weeks later, I stepped nervously into a waiting room at LDS Family Services. My bishop had recommended an old friend, a psychiatrist who was also a bishop of a family ward in New York City. After filling out a survey on how I was feeling about certain things in my life in that moment, finally I sat down in his office, unsure of what to expect and feeling myself wanting to cry all over again at the thought of how I had gotten there.As my therapist entered and we started to talk, I immediately felt peace. He was warm, had tissue readily available, and simply asked questions that prompted me to think, to ponder aloud about my childhood, my parents, and most importantly my tendencies for coping with various scenarios. “Just like the way you naturally fold your arms, you have automatic ways of doing things based on patterns.” He had told me, encouraging me to try folding my arms in a different way. He explained that the awkwardness I felt in assuming this new position would be the same way I would feel as I worked with him to learn new ways of handling things, especially relationships in my life. But if I would work at it, we could make real progress together.
I didn’t put a timeline on our visits. I continued sitting in his office after work on Tuesday nights, planning to go until I felt like myself again. And trust me when I tell you that each meeting was difficult. I could feel myself ripping the scabs off of nearly healed wounds and fountains of tears always followed. There were repressed memories that came to the surface and instead of pushing them out of my mind and heart so I wouldn't feel the pain, I listened to them, studied them, wrote down what I remembered about them, how I felt in the moment and what I guessed was the reality now years later. And as I left each visit, stopping to treat myself to a chocolate croissant from a bakery across the street, I knew I was climbing out of a dark hole. I was finally making progress. Light filled my mind as I sat on the long subway ride across town to my apartment, and then new tears but new understanding as I would lay on my bed and go through everything I had just talked about, jotting copious notes on what came into my mind and in my heart. It was as if my therapist was helping me plug in a lamp and then God flipped the switch, rewarding me for the sheer emotional work I was putting into this journey of understanding.
One evening, I decided to try taking the cross-town bus home through Central Park instead of the usual subway route. A friend had suggested it, a somewhat leisurely ride as opposed to the dreary underground transportation. I had licked the last flakes and chocolate smears off my fingers from my croissant and had walked to what I thought was the bus stop. Then, as a large vehicle appeared and passengers stepped off, I felt a slight feeling of panic as I knew it wasn’t the right one. Walking the streets asking people where the 86 Westside stop was, no one seemed to know or seemed to care to help me. Rain had started to pour and opening my umbrella, I continued frantically searching the streets for the right pick up area, tears of frustration welling up in my eyes that I angrily blinked away.
Suddenly a few feet in front of me, my therapist had stepped into a line forming for another bus. He too was tucked underneath an umbrella, wrapped in a warm coat. It was almost a strange sensation seeing him there, like seeing your elementary school teacher in the grocery store. Just another person, hurrying home to his own family after a day of work. He turned, smiled and waved at me. Unsure if he could tell I had been crying, I coughed away my nerves and tried to ask him calmly where the 86 Westside bus stop was. “It’s on the other side of the street, right over there.” He had told me warmly, pointing to another corner I hadn’t tried yet. Thanking him profusely, I made my way through the traffic, noting the Sprint phone store directly in front of where a bus was already parked, so that I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
A few minutes later, sitting comfortably in a seat with my umbrella dripping at my feet, I caught a glimpse of my mentor and friend still standing waiting for his own bus. And suddenly an overwhelming feeling of love and guidance from God poured through me. “This man will help you, Suzanne. “ I could feel a brightness, a sensation of hope running through my veins. And knew that just like he had helped me find my physical way home, my therapist through LDS Family Services was helping me find my spiritual way home, teaching me the things I needed to know in order to find complete and total happiness in my life. Confidence in my ability to love and to be loved that would impact my children and my children’s children.
I stopped visiting LDS Family Services a couple of months later, having reached a point of self-love and healing that restored my sense of self, but have never forgotten the precious and treasured experiences I had from seeking that professional guidance. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that God's love is real and can heal us in ways that other methods of coping cannot. But there are also inherent patterns and pain that have accumulated over time as a result of humanity and agency that need to be studied carefully and repaired. The way our parents have raised us. The way our parent’s parents have raised them. Blips in the graph of our development that God never intended to hold us back, but that can, if not addressed when we sense something is not quite right within us.
If you feel that lingering pain or that incessant demonstration of personal weakness, you owe it to yourself to seek that additional help. You too can find someone that can act as a guide in your own journey of emotional healing and self-forgiveness. It will be difficult, you will feel more vulnerable than you have ever felt in your life previously, but it will give you greater confidence and strength than you can imagine. This is your year. Your year to break the pattern and learn to love freely. Generations will thank you. God will bless you.
Suzanne Davis is the founder of Striving Onward , a digital community where women across the world can support and inspire one another in their roles as friends, wives and mothers. A social media junkie and publicist by trade, she loves reading classic literature, figuring out new witty hashtags #itsanart and flipping through fashion and interior decorating magazines. Having recently moved to Los Angeles from New York City, on an idle Saturday you can find her exploring new restaurants, brushing up on her beach volleyball skills and coming up with new and exciting ways to decorate her new house on a budget. Suzanne is also a proud alumni of Brigham Young University.
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