At times like this, people say ‘Take care of yourself’ all the time. Sometimes it’s a throwaway line, sometimes it’s said with more care, a bit more concern. 'Take care of yourself, yes?’ Of course, that’s an impossibility. Between going to Cancer Dad’s hospital appointments and all the notes and emails around that; writing a book; completing my beloved freelance work - going back a little further: moving house and leaving our friends; having another baby; my sister and her family moving to the other side of the world, probably for good; redundancy; and on top of all that, money worries and the feeding and cleaning up after and home decoration for and clothing and caring for and the hundred small and a few bigger concerns and worries of my golden, delicious family… where does taking care of myself fit in? If I don’t have time to sleep, how do I grieve for this year’s terrible, horrible deaths?
Last week was a perfect storm of crises, and none of them were mine. In the same week, three separate friends, entirely independent of each other, told me about their own experiences of and dealings with depression and therapy. I had intended to miss this documentary on Radio 4, but ended up hearing the whole thing. Serendipity. When several comedians discussed their time in therapy, and their therapists’ patient refusal of their jokes, it was a gut-punch realisation that the sense of humour I prize so highly and cherish over almost all else had actually been keeping me from dealing with any of these difficult, even horrific, experiences. LOL of course I’m fine with my Dad in the terminal ward, have you seen how cheap the food is in a hospital cafe? LOL ACTUAL PAIN MAKES GOOD FUN JOKES LOL
Fingers flying on the ol’ magical google also made me finally believe (in a way I couldn’t when it was just *loved ones* telling me - Jesus Christ, what do they know?) that any mood swings or behavioural changes I’d had this year were pretty much 98% likely to have been due to all the shit I’d had kicking around in my Life Events brain section. Less 'You are actually a wicked bastard and it’s finally coming to the surface’, more 'You know you can just go and get help and you’ll feel less like this and more like the self you know you are’. And YES - I am *extremely* privileged that I can just go and pay for therapy, and that I’m able and verbal and open and everything else enough that this is an option for me. I am extremely lucky.
Everyone I’ve discussed therapy with turns out generally already to have had it, and they all say, 'OH MY GOD EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE THERAPY IT IS THE BEST’, with the same hopping up-and-down giddiness I get when someone asks if they should read Wolf Hall. But once I’d booked my first appointment, I started thinking, 'Do I really need it? People never used to need therapy. Certainly not at 33. Not if they hadn’t been in a war zone or something.’ Then I started thinking about the general family skills and life histories of my ancestors, and realised, yeah, we probably all should have a bit of fucking therapy. If nothing else, it gives you fifty minutes to just talk about yourself and god knows I love to do that LOL JOKES ABOUT FEELINGS ARE THE FUNNIEST BECAUSE THEN YOU DONT HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE ACTUAL FEELINGS LOL
Anyway. Wish me luck. I feel (a little bit) better already.