Tea and Biscuits: The Journey of PTSD And Therapy
Therapy is like dating and other musings …
“‘The thing is Rebecca...’, she muffled, the words sporadically spitting out along with the crumbs of the biscuit that she’s crunching down the line. It’s my fourth phone session with her. ‘The thing is..’ is one of her common catchphrases. It’s starting to annoy me. But, she’s here to help, which is ironic because I’m pretty sure I have undiagnosed Misophonia, so I hold the phone at a distance as she perseveres with biscuit number four. We had introduced ourselves via text message after being‘paired’ based on a questionnaire. I was new to the world of therapy. I was also new to having a breakdown stemming from untreated PTSD. I was desperate for any help coming from anywhere and anyone. ‘The thing is’, my name’s not Rebecca.
My very first therapist was a northern woman, whom I’d never met, trying to guide me through a crisis. Our sessions were via telephone because my PTSD disabled me from going anywhere without feeling unsafe and triggered. A standard phone call between two women if anyone were to tap our phone lines. Me, crying intermittently,partly because I don’t have the strength to remind her again that my name is Holly. And partly because I quite fancy trading places with whoever this ‘Rebecca’ might be. I zone out after she calls me Rebecca for the fifth time. I consider needing therapy about this therapy session itself. I also start to think about who Rebecca may be. My guess is that it’s one of her other clients. Does she also make tea and biscuits for their sessions? It’s not like she can offer us a cup. Our remote sessions also have me drawing up images of what my therapist might look like.
I’ve accidentally gathered some clues about her from the four hours we’ve spent chatting. She’s fairly bored in tone, likes a snack and tea (who can blame her) and has two dogs who yap and make up distant background noise that can be heard down the phone. Just as I start drawing mental floor plans of what her home looks like based on the sound of her footsteps, there comes the dreaded pause for effect. It’s another one of the traits of our sessions (and all therapy since). Long pause. In the initial hours of my therapy, the long pauses seemed unproductive. Shouldn’t we be talking like two impassioned old ladies? They also induce worry that she may have gone on a loo break, or even worse, fallen asleep.
‘Are you with me, Rebecca?’... she interrupted the pause to assign me my new identity once more.
‘Yes’, Rebecca replied confidently. Rebecca is invincible!
My therapist recommended a meditation app so I told her that I’d been using it. It’s true, I had. I’d practically become a monk. After being signed off work post mental collapse in the open plan office, I figured it was time to make some changes. To be honest, so far, the app recommendation was the best thing my therapist offered. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I already subscribed months before.
And just like that, the session was over. They’re forty five minutes long but they vary from feeling like five minutes to seven days. Today felt like a five minute session. Which, to be fair, is due to the fact that she pretended that the signal cut out but hung up on me instead. I didn’t know landlines had service problems. After texting her six times to tell her that my phone was in fact working, she replied fifteen minutes later. The session was about to commence again! Apparently, it was a good lesson for me to learn.
“When I said that therapy is like dating, I really meant it. Sessions are like dates where trying to find the perfect partner who gets all of your quirks and your idiosyncrasies can seem impossible. It’s vulnerability like you’ve never known it before”
‘We can’t always control what comes our way, Rebecca. It just so happened that our phones were there to teach that lesson today.’
‘Inspired’, Rebecca replied mystically. Rebecca is so understanding.
After six weeks with my telephone therapist and my alter ego Rebecca, I was convinced that I needed to break up with my first therapist. It was fairly painless butmy parting words were similar to those you’d use to comfort an ex.
‘Thank you for everything. You’ve been incredible. We’ve had some great times. It’s not you, it’s me.’
After a long pause and a slurp of her freshly brewed tea, she was ready to amicably split up.
‘Alright, Rebecca. Take care’.
Just like that, it was over. I was single again. A free unit, divorced from all help and hope. I was let loose into the playing field once more. After shedding a few tears, mostly because I’ll miss using the landline, I set out to look for my next therapist. Like everything, it started with a Google search. I’d already tried long distance so I thought setting up a face-to-face session might be the only way. I looked up local therapists, read every review and also checked out the buildings and interiors. Finding a therapist was basically online dating.
I started a few conversation threads and finally decided to try a man. My decision was based on a nice looking logo, a local building and the fact that he replied quickly. He wanted an initial phone call. So far, I didn’t think he was too demanding. I could call his office number whenever I was ready for an initial brief. All too wary of my next therapist being a fake scam artist, I quickly checked to see if the number was freephone. It was. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach and I punched the number in.
‘Oh hi, Holly’, serenaded the calm man.
Slightly taken aback that Rebecca was no longer my bravado, I was faced with being myself. I thought this was a good start because Rebecca was beginning to get a lot of free therapy on me.
The conversation was led by him. There were no long pauses and so far, he wasn’t eating a biscuit or slurping tea. He explained how therapy worked, how he could help with my recovery and talked money.
‘How does that all sound?’, he politely inquired.
‘Fantastic. I’d look to book in for your soonest appointment please!’, I was so enthusiastic that this man could be the answer to my prayers.
Long pause.
Tea and biscuits Holly Louise
I knew this was too good to be true...
‘Hello?’, I cautioned. I could hear some rustling on the other end. I hoped it wasn’t toilet paper.
‘Ah, I’m afraid, Holly... that my next appointment isn’t until 2025’. Now I was the one creating the long pause for effect.
‘Are you sure there isn’t one sooner?’, I quivered. Rebecca would never have quivered. ‘Please, I just don’t know where to turn. I’ve tried so many websites to find the right therapist. I’ll pay anything!’.
“Therapy is about learning to walk again and ‘when the shoe fits’, you’ll begin to take those first steps.”
Talk about taking it slow... I wasn’t good at this. He told me how much he was in demand, how there’s only one of him and so many clients to fit onto the waiting list. But, that he’d squeeze me in and let me know if a sooner appointment came up. I relented and agreed. He was my only hope.
After waiting a week for a text back (I told you this was like dating), he gave me a call. There was an appointment in two months. A deposit would have to be paid. I paid it on the spot, without hesitating that he was a fraud this time too. I thanked him too much and started a countdown until my session.
Of course, I needed help sooner than two months. I was signed off work, with responsibilities waiting in the wings and bills to pay with money no longer flowing inas it used to. I couldn’t leave the house and when I did, I was being triggered so intensely that it made me want to close my world into the safety of my bedroom. I knew I needed to find another solution but with an expensive session paid for with a man who’d learnt my name, I tried to stay positive. Each day was one day closer to getting the help that I so desperately needed.
In between this time, I’d become aware of another local therapist in the area through a friend, of a friend of my mother’s. I messaged her on a whim that she might be more available than the therapy Titan I’d booked in with. This time, I did not use Google but went with my instincts. After tailoring my first session to avoid triggers, it was set up for a few days’ time. I felt nervous, vulnerable but also hopeful that evenif we didn’t ‘click’, I could make friends with her therapy dog.
Arriving on the doorstep, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d forgotten my tissues, I needed a nervous wee and I was sweating in a five degree climate. I’d prepared myself for my trigger sweating by modelling a thin t shirt. It was the dead of winter so I knew I would look peculiar. As a prided fashionista, it wasn’t the best outfit. I looked like a classic psychiatric patient.
The door opened and out burst the dog. A gentle whippet with one eye, gnashing its teeth with excitement. I felt immediately safe. My therapist guided me in through to the room. A cosy, safe space with a sofa for me, her and the dog. We all took our places.
‘So, tell me a bit about yourself...’, she smiled gently. I felt welcomed. What’s better, I was even offered a cup of tea and there were tissues ready to grab.
When I said that therapy is like dating, I really meant it. Sessions are like dates where trying to find the perfect partner who gets all of your quirks and your idiosyncrasies can seem impossible. It’s vulnerability like you’ve never known it before. You’ll bear your soul to find out that it’s not really working and you’ll start over again. But that’s ok. Therapy is about learning to walk again and ‘when the shoe fits’, you’ll begin to take those first steps.
(As for the therapy Titan, he really was a scam. Always read the Google reviews...)”
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You can find Holly via her Instagram at @hollylouisea_ or visit her website at www.Iblogthefashion.com.