Earlier this week, I left my office with a tremendous sigh and a drag in my step, commencing the stroll two blocks over to meet my new therapist. I am somewhat begrudgingly undertaking this repeated step of couch-lying in an effort to improve those things that I haven't managed to deal well enough with on my own. I am cynical of my prior history with LCSW's, MSW's, PsyD's, and LPRN's, but not so cynical as to deny that I may need a little help in my quest for self-improvement, particularly with my urges to binge. I know where they come from. I know why I do it, and what the triggers are, but I am still obtusely confused as to how to effectively stop them, despite the unbeknownst efforts of several internet article authors and yearly humorous calendars.
It is with that cautious optimism that I feel obliged to pose a question on a very serious, much maligned, and equally praised tool for self-growth and healing. Why the FUCK does every emotional wellness practictioner cling to the idea of psychotropic drugs with the earnest of a crackwhore to her fix????
I can ramble on about my considerably fucked up family and past, and it raises nary an eyebrow...it didn't from this one either. But upon the first mention of the words Zoloft, Xanax, Cymbalta or Prozac, the pen scribbles furiously, the "uh huh's" change to questions on dosage, assumptions of efficacy, and immediate thoughts of trying a new something. It leaves tremendous suspicion that these people are little more than highly paid advocates of Pfizer and Lily.
I left the last shrink (a real one, not an LCSW, etc..) I had because every time I saw him he wanted nothing more than for me to remind him of my current dosage and immediately write a script increasing it. If I had stayed with him, I would be a zombie- comfortably numb, and imperviously sending hundreds of dollars to the pharmaceutical companies who sponsored him.
Yet I've returned again. What the fuck is wrong with me, you might ask? My first experience with "therapy" was when I was 8 or 9. Several attempts from then until late college left me with one seemingly undeniable truth- "therapy" did not work for me. In fact, it seemed such a waste of time, energy, and money I resented even the word.
Yet, here I am. Several months post-op and my eating compulsions have not faded, disappeared, or otherwise left me alone. In fact, in some ways they are stronger because of my inability to partake in them as much as I used to. The other stuff that puts me back on the couch, talking about uncomfortable, painful shit that does much better repressed deep inside some unused brain synapsis covered in cobwebs...well, we'll just have to see.
When I mentioned to the new shrink that I didn't want to be on the SSRI's for more than a few months, she asked why, with this look as if I had two heads, or just made a shocking statement akin to wanting a sex-change operation.
It felt like a lobbyist for the tobacco industry asking a 2 pack-a-day'er why in the world they'd want to quit smoking.
I'll keep you posted, but so far things do not look great for the soft-spoken shrink and her taupe-shaded couch.
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