There have been many times in my life when I’ve thought to myself: ‘I should probably start looking for a therapist.’ A troubled childhood, complicated relationships with my narcissistic parents, an ongoing skin-picking obsession and, later, a rocky patch in my marriage were all good enough reasons to seek some kind of counselling. I just didn’t know what kind.
It wasn’t until my mum died by suicide in March 2023 that – aged 57 – I knew I couldn’t use that excuse any more. A friend recommended an online therapy service, and I liked the idea. At my first appointment, after a kind-hearted face on a screen watched me cry for 30 minutes, I realised I did not actually like that idea. It felt impersonal and awkward. It was also too soon after my mum’s death. I felt like I was leading the therapist to counsel my grief, when what I really wanted to do was explore my anger. Towards the end of the session I remember thinking: ‘This can never work, I am way too complicated and broken for therapy.’ I didn’t book a second session.
It was a year later, after I developed stressinduced heart failure, that I realised it was because I was complicated and broken that therapy was essential – for both my physical and mental wellbeing. The physical impact of my unresolved emotions literally led to a broken heart (known as takotsubo cardiomyopathy). It was my doctor who suggested somatic therapy, a technique that focuses on a mind-body connection to release trauma from the body.
At my first session my therapist didn’t have the chance to say much as I unleashed a tirade of 50 years of trauma. I think the only thing she might have said is, ‘slow down’. I am joking, of course; she said more than that. I told her that I have a problem with control – I’m a control freak. ‘Don’t use words like that to describe yourself,’ she said. And right there and then I had a light-bulb moment – I do use words like that to describe myself, all the time. I am trying not to anymore.
This one realisation alone ensured my continued journey with her. And gradually I started to relax into this new world – one where I was the focus – for an hour every fortnight at least. It was not easy for me. I struggled with the rawness and vulnerability of it all. Somehow it felt wrong to always be talking about me.
In a later session I told her something personal. Staring at my hands – because I find it easier to open up without making eye contact – I recounted a simple, lovely moment between my husband and me that had made me feel loved and cared for (something I struggle to feel). When I looked up she was crying. When I told a friend about the crying she was appalled. ‘Your therapist should not be the one crying,’ she said. But I was not appalled, I was impressed, and grateful. To me this meant that she was empathetic and genuinely caring. It helped me to develop trust in her, an essential component of the therapist-client relationship. It also made me laugh a little – I made my therapist cry! What a great anecdote.
I had a couple of revelations during my journey with her. One was when I had a sudden realisation about my childhood that I had never said out loud before. I even surprised myself when I said it: ‘I was so immersed in my parents’ world that I never really focused on my own. As a result I never even tried to fulfil my potential. I never became what I could have become.’ I don’t think that I would have come to this conclusion on my own. When I did it was truly enlightening for me.
I found the somatic part of the therapy equally as powerful as the talking part. Towards the end of each session my therapist would get me to relax, do some deep breathing and focus on the mind-body connection. She once asked me to lay a hand over my heart and to sit with it. As my whole body relaxed I felt an intense surge of love. I highly recommend you try this. There is an actual science behind it, but I don’t care about that. I just know that it feels good. And that is what it’s all about.
