Today, my therapist brought up discontinuing our therapy sessions, citing that I am doing well. I felt an instantaneous resistance to the idea. I had been seeing a therapist every week or two for nine years. When she left the organization, I was given a new therapist, Margie. I connected with her right away. She has a wonderful lightness about her. I’ve been seeing her regularly for about six months or so.
When we started talking about ending our sessions, I had to admit to myself that I don’t really need them. I am doing well – very well. My bipolar symptoms have been relatively stable for quite some time with the increase in psych meds. I still have mania and depression, but the highs and lows are not so intense; they are manageable. As for my PTSD symptoms, I have many coping skills I have learned to help me work through them. While I spend much of my time alone writing, I am no longer isolating. I am alone by choice, not because I get into a funk or don’t want to be around people.
My first thought when Margie brought up the subject was Whom will I talk to when times get rough? But I now have a handful of close friends with whom I meet for lunch or coffee, people with whom I can share what’s going on with me, people who can understand and empathize. It’s been this way for a couple of years. So, I wonder, have I been using therapy as a crutch? Probably. But that’s okay. I have been doing what I’ve grown accustomed to, taking comfort in the familiar. My therapist said I can always call her and make an appointment if I feel the need. She even told me to call her just to say hello and let her know how I’m doing.
I have come a long way in my healing and need to acknowledge this. I know what tools to use if I get triggered. I know to pick up the phone and talk to one of my friends if I am struggling. So, on with the next phase of my life. No more therapist. I’m okay with that.
Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash