"For a long period of time, I told very few people that I was in therapy. I continued to cling to my conviction that therapists were for losers."

Larissa Kaye Batten (llbeara@aol.com) writes "Soul Food," a weekly column for SpiritSite.com.  

Larissa is a prolific writer whose work has been featured in several publications.  

You can visit Lara's web site at www.miracleanimalrescue.com (site will open in a new window).

"I’m going to see a therapist," I announced to my father as we stood in the driveway and packed the trunk of my car.  "I think I’m falling apart," I told him.

Of course, this was not news to anyone who knew me.

I was in a wildly up and down relationship with a verbally abusive, soulful, passionate, highly intelligent, creative, still-married alcoholic.

When I met this man, he said he was separated and getting divorced. I was naive and believed that he was single and ready to be with me. I was not even ready to be with myself, let alone to let someone else be with me in any healthy kind of way.

My relationship with this man was perhaps the least of my problems. I was also alcoholic, had a very active eating disorder, self-mutilated on and off, thought about suicide often enough, took pills once in a while, had been sexually abused as a child, and sabotaged anything and anyone that so much as looked in my direction.

"I went to a therapist once," my father revealed. "A relationship didn’t work out, and I talked to someone a few times because I was having a hard time with it."

That was news to my ears. I didn’t know Ivy League-educated, highly intelligent, well respected, physicians like my father ever needed to talk to a therapist.

As far as I was concerned, therapists were for New Yorkers who had a lot of money and needed a time-out on someone else’s sofa. That was the extent of what I knew about therapy -- with one exception.

I had once seen a world-renowned eating disorders psychiatrist while in college. He dozed off during our conversations and concluded that I was stressed out with schoolwork and didn’t eat enough protein. I graduated from therapy and returned diligently to my addictions and life-threatening ways.

"You might as well go see someone a few times," my father said kindly. "It helped me."

I took the plunge. I made a few calls, opened the yellow pages, and called a therapy clinic. What could I lose?

I was virtually ready to kill myself over a failing relationship, and one shot with a therapist couldn’t do any harm.

I did not, however, show up for my first appointment.

The day of my appointment, my boyfriend told me that he planned to give his marriage another chance. I was devastated and completely unable to cope with the news.

I charged straight to the local drugstore, while my boyfriend followed furtively behind me. He must have known he would be unable to stop me because he did not reveal that he had followed me until after I bought a bottle of pills and tossed back a few of them.

I knew within an hour of taking the pills and returning to my office that I would pass out, get sick, or die. Fortunately, I had not taken enough to die. But I was not about to get any work done either – let alone make it to my therapy appointment.

I called my father, brother, and mother long distance from work to tell them what I had done.

"That was really stupid," my father told me. "Now I’m going to have to come up there and take care of you."

He was obviously very frightened, which I could not see at the time as I heard the thick of his anger.

My brother offered no better solution.

"They’ll have to pump your stomach," he said.

My mother was a bit more gentle. I do not recall her words, however, as I was in an increasingly drowsy state.

I somehow made it home and managed to call the therapist’s office to cancel my appointment.

So much for New York City therapists.

The phone rang a few days later.

"This is Marge Casey," the woman said. "You cancelled an appointment with me the other day. I wonder if you would like to reschedule."

Ah, uh, hmmm, well –

I was caught off guard.

I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Truthfully, I did not know how to say no.

"Okay, I’ll reschedule," I said, knowing full well I would go for my one appointment and toss out the whole idea of therapy – along with the therapist’s couch.

My convictions about the uselessness of therapy were a bit off the mark.

Over eight years have passed since that first appointment, and I have been in touch with Marge Casey ever since.

Whether actively in therapy or simply staying in touch periodically to let Marge know how I am, I have always remained connected with her.

Marge told me at my very first session that she might not be assigned to me after she interviewed me at that session.

I had told her everything I knew at the time about myself, and I was upset at the prospect I would have to start from scratch with somebody new.

But God was looking out for me, because Marge and I were assigned to each other.

For a long period of time, I told very few people that I was in therapy. I continued to cling to my conviction that therapists were for losers, and I did not want my friends and relatives to know that I was one of these losers.

At my very first session, Marge asked me what brought me into therapy.

"My relationship is killing me," I told her.

"That’s a pretty strong word to use," she suggested.

"Well it is," I said. "Sometimes I don’t think I can live anymore because of the pain."

Marge knew better, but she knew I was not ready to hear this.

Nor was I ready to tell her everything about me. I wasn’t even ready to tell myself.

My relationship troubles were merely a symptom of my inner turmoil and shortcomings, of my addictions and lack of healthy tools for living.

"Well, we’ll talk more about this," Marge told me.

Indeed we did.

For the next year or so, I talked mostly about my relationship.

Eventually, I dove deeper.

I began to talk about my family, my background, my childhood, and, ultimately, my addictions.

Once I became sober and abstinent from my eating disorder, with the help of recovery programs for people with addictions, I became much more honest.

Through my enormous ups and downs, through my horrendous desires to self-mutilate, to kill myself, to quit, and to sabotage everything I had begun to build, Marge stuck by me.

As I healed and began to develop an amazing spirituality, I saw more and more who Marge really was.

Yes, Marge was a therapist. She had her degree, and she treated people with varying degrees of emotional and mental challenges.  Marge was a therapist by definition, and I was her client by that same definition.

But over time, as we intertwined spirituality with traditional therapy, we both started to see that we were much more than therapist and client.

We were, in a sense, fellow journeywomen.

Marge never gave me answers. In fact, she was quite opposed to the idea of providing me with answers.

She was a guide who walked by my side as I found my own answers from within.

In essence, she supported the God in me.

To this day, I do not know if Marge practices a religion or what religion she might practice if she does.

I do know quite clearly, however, that Marge is on a spiritual path just as I am.

As I have grown, she has grown.  As she has learned, I have learned.  As I have questioned, she has questioned.  As she has answered, I have answered.

When I might have quit, she believed in me.

When she might have questioned her profession, my growth supported the fact she was in the right place.

When she led, I followed.  And when I led, she followed.

She never pushed, and I rarely pressured.

We simply continued along on our individual and together journeys and were there to receive God’s healing and grace.

In all these years, Marge has told me little about herself. She has helped to keep the focus on my own healing.

But in the light of her eyes, in the richness of her laugh, I have seen myself reflected in her – in her own growth, in her pride at what we have accomplished together.

We are proud of what we have done.

We have shown up for the grace of a higher power who chose to invite us on a weaving, winding, tapestry of a glorious path.

When I felt my life was falling to pieces, she told me, yes, it was. And she told me that together we would weave a newer, a brighter, a healthier life for me.

Marge has changed couches over the years. I particularly like her leather sofa, but I have never laid down on it.

I have learned that therapy, for me, is not to lie down and be paralyzed and analyzed. I have done enough of my own analysis over the years – both of myself and of others.

My therapist’s couch is there so I can sit on it and show up for the healing process.

And the healing process is not for any single individual.

The healing process is about the healing of the universe and its children.

Why would God waste time healing only one person when he has the power to heal us all?

Why would God heal only me as the client when he can heal my therapist at the same time?

Why would God give preference to one of his children when his world is overflowing with children?

I am grateful today to be a child of the universe.  And I am grateful to be a partner in healing and not solely a recipient of it.

May we lift our souls to the challenge of being healed as a universe, and may we all take part and responsibility in the healing of ourselves, our brothers, and our sisters.

As me help make up the universe, so may we help to heal it.

Amen.

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