Why I Don't Believe in Therapists

The question of why I don’t believe in therapists has been presented to me numerous times. Every answer I provide never seems to be good enough for the questioner so let me thoroughly explain. Ahem.

Here’s how the sessions go:

“Well, I’ve been having some trouble sleeping for the past few years now.”

“Years, wow, and how does that make you feel?”

“Tired. It makes me fucking tired.”

“Well why do you think you’re not sleeping?”

“Anxiety, financial ruin, the complete and utter hopelessness that accompanies existential dread.”

“Uh-huh, and why do you think you feel this way?”

“Well buckle the fuck up doc because we’re going back to the beginning. It probably started manifesting when I was this tall, overweight, had jacked up teeth, acne, glasses, and an unmovable affinition for cat shirts when I was a kid. You can imagine the kinds of insecurities that would develop from that. Fast forward 21 years and my ex was killed in a hit and run accident and for some reason, a reason I still can’t decide where it sits on the fuck me up scale, I saw his body to say goodbye. That obviously lead to the solid development of drinking my way through any issue, resulting in some very poor sexual decisions and a chunk of about six months I don’t quite remember. An intervention was eventually had by my family, the one saving grace I had and so I went to see a grief counselor, the most useless person in the world. Do you want to know what she did? She made me talk about this guy I had lost, told me drinking wasn’t helpful, and that I should continue to use my creative outlet. No shit, Sherlock. So that didn’t last long. Then my best friend and I decided that we should fly to Vegas to send off this guys best friend to Iraq. Vegas shenanigans ensued and I missed my flight back home on Christmas Eve. I managed to board one and land in Boston about 15 minutes after originally planned. Still following along? Super. The next decade or so I’d struggle with not drinking over every little problem until I found boxing. Boxing saved my life. It still makes me feel more alive, more whole, than any drink ever has. After a shit relationship with a friendless fool who tried to make me into his little housewife, I found my ex husband. Yup, EX husband. After two years, I found out he met up with some guy for a seeded affair and eventually told me he thought he was gay. Now, I don’t know if his Catholic guilt would ever let him live that life because he stopped talking to me after I chose to support him and tried my best to be his friend. Oh, did I mention he lives around the corner from where I live now? Yeah. Speaking of which, after that shit show, I moved back in with my folks because our marriage had strapped me for cash and crashed my credit score. Lies and deceit my friend. Lies and deceit. So while attempting to deal with my sham of a failed marriage I turned 30 living in my childhood bedroom. I had a weird relationship with someone I had known in what felt like a previous life. The unbridled jealousy with that one eventually got to me, so we said goodbye. Unfortunately, he became part of our little social group so I still had to see him and his new lady friend on occasion. That part never bothered me because wow, talk about a downgrade. After six months with mom and dad I ended up moving in with a long-time friend and old neighbor from childhood who suffered an eerily similar fate. His house, by the way? A 10 minute walk from my parent’s place and about the same distance from my ex’s apartment. This living situation has been incredible since a shit credit score and a mountain of debt would have left me homeless. He’s also a pretty solid roomie. The ever-looming end of this place and not having a solid alternative does still add to my stress levels though. Now for some good news. I met someone. Not just someone, THEE one. Which I know since my dating track record is basically a colossal failure, I don’t expect you or anyone to believe it but this guy is something special. Shortly after he came into my life, a fur baby did as well. And while she put a bit more financial strain on things, the emotional and mental benefits of loving her completely outweigh it. Now, back to why I’m messed up. Around this time the pandemic hit and lots of people lost their jobs. I was one of the lucky ones but they also garnished our wages for the whole of 2020 and gave us additional responsibilities since half our company wasn’t so lucky. When you’re living paycheck to paycheck and desperately trying to claw your way out of that minimum payment revolving door, 10% means you’re going deeper into debt. The stimulus checks were a nice thought and I’m grateful, but I needed more. I decided to start teaching boxing after getting the okay to change my usual hours around to accommodate class. For someone who has had a paralyzing fear of public speaking, giving me a microphone, and telling me to teach a class full of fitness fanatics was and still is a struggle. While I’ve never been made to feel that I need to lose weight, I know I do. Quarantine was unkind and now I have people looking at me to make them better versions of themselves. That’ll make you hyper aware of your own body. Now my usual gig is back at full payment with a wage freeze and no chance of bonuses. The things you know you shouldn’t rely on, but you do. 10 years at this place and I’m still making less than 50K but we have a new HR person who seems like she might actually be for the people. She got us unlimited vacation which sounds great but also dicks over anyone with seniority because our one perk was an additional week of time. Keeping this policy in mind, I decided to take a four-day weekend to recharge, start on some desperately needed spring cleaning, and try to get some sleep. Per usual, I was asked to run a double on a lengthy report the day before I go and the day I get back. Those days I also need to leave very close to the end of the workday to make it to my class on time to scrounge together scraps of money to keep making minimum payments so I can continue to keep my head above water. Barely. That means I either start earlier, work through lunch, or log back in later in the evening. Now tell me, what the fuck is the point of having four days off if you’re going to cram in extra work before and I after I get back? And do you want to know the kicker? Some guy I got hired who works on my team won’t have to worry about additional work. I can say with some confidence that he also gets paid more than I do. Most of my issues could actually be solved with money. Whoever said it doesn’t solve your problems, clearly had enough of it. I love when people tell me to just write a book or publish something like that isn’t difficult or somehow will guarantee you endless compensation. I know plenty of published folks who barely see a dime. I’ve also finally accepted the fact that my attention span will likely never allow me to finish a novel. Maybe I have some version of ADHD and this could be solved with drugs. Drugs we all know I’d never take. So that dream went down the toilet. Of course I’ve tried online writing portals but they still want you to pay for shit to make you more visible. Well sweetie, if I had that kind of money I wouldn’t be trying to turn writing tricks to get me to my next pay check. So the one thing I’m even sort of good at is basically useless on a monetary level and I feel perpetually stuck.

Recently, I’ve developed allergies which I thought the higher powers and I had an agreement about. I’d get all fucked up teeth and eye problems, my brother would foot being allergic to nature. That just goes along with whatever the constant postnasal drip shit is I’ve had for the past decade or so. No one will tell me. No one will fix it. So I just blow my nose, choke on my own phlegm, and clear my throat more often than an old man in a nursing home. Age hit me hard. Tennis elbow became a thing after I boxed for several weeks straight and both my knees enjoy expressing their displeasure at running. My lower back is always sore but that could very well be my 11-year-old mattress I can’t afford to replace. It also hasn’t slipped my mind that my child-bearing years are rapidly coming to a close. I mean, I can barely afford a cat and definitely can’t keep plants alive, so maybe that’s for the best.

In conclusion, I’m bordering on 33 years old with a ridiculous amount of a debt and a crap credit score, cannot make headway on the aforementioned debt, need to find somewhere to live within the next year, working two dead end jobs, accepted that I’m not quite good enough for my dream, have essentially given up hope of ever being financially stable enough to have a kid (that was a hard pill to swallow), consistently dealing with the aftermath of emotional turmoil, and I find maintaining even a shred of optimism on a daily basis, progressively more difficult.

Oh, and my truck needs a break job.

This is what runs through my head at 2am…so does that answer your question?”