Four months later

My therapy reckoning

May 08, 2025

I was happy when I started therapy, I genuinely thought I was. But four months, twenty days, and sixteen sessions later, I now know better.

I now know that happiness was the gloss I’d papered over my self-hatred. The veneer under which I seethed at my many shortcomings. The excuse that for a decade absolved me from the unpleasant task of digging up my past to make sense of my present: after all, who needs therapy when they’re happy?

Evidence of my happiness, confidently scrawled by yours truly, in my pre-counselling questionnaire

It’s got to get worse…

Would you like to hear the poem? I offer after telling my therapist I’ve written a poem titled “I am nothing” inspired by our conversation around my (non-existent) self-esteem.

Yes please, my therapist sits up, pen and notebook at the ready.

I flip open my nascent poetry collection and begin reading, my voice firm:

I am nothing. Written 29/03/25 at Tywi B.
Without my accomplishments, I am nothing.
Without my partner, my job, my friends, my writing.
My body a husk that holds a void.
A collection of thoughts, a mere humanoid. [What does humanoid mean? I stop to ask my therapist. Like an automaton? Good, I wasn’t sure I was using it right.]
I am nothing unless I’m seen.
My self-esteem non-existent, is how I’ve always been.
Do I hate myself and why?
Can I blame my parents or is the fault mine?
Before my partner I was unloved.
In the way I needed, how I wanted to be heard.
Now saved, I wonder if I’m free.
From this self-hatred that’s the province of me.
I am nothing, no good, defective.
A selfish and proud obsessive.
Wracked by anxiety, my drive to succeed.
Who else but me will fulfil my need?
Onto the page I pour my thoughts.
Untangled in silence, the space my privilege bought.
For I am blessed with fortune and pain.
A blessing [I hate that I’m repeating the word] and a curse I bemoan in vain.
Who am I? I ask.
Alone, what can I be?
What happiness is to be had
When all I have is me.

… before it gets better

Of all the things I expected therapy to uncover, and I had high hopes, I did not expect “I hate myself” and “I have no self-esteem.”

I started therapy so I could understand my past—the depressions and manias of a decade ago—and not my present. When I had my first session four months ago, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I had healthy emotional, psychological, and physical habits. I loved the person I was (or so I thought) and was proud of the years of daily work I’d done to shed my former, defective self (alas).

They say therapy has a way of making you realise just how f*cked up you are, and I guess, in my case, the internet is right. Over sixteen weekly sessions some of which tearful, I learnt, in this order:

I am not a people pleaser.
I default to judgement, not empathy.
I impose unbelievably high standards on others.
I catastrophise.
I am an incredibly anxious person, no wonder I’ve been called “neurotic.”
I label myself “selfish” because that’s easier than working through conflicting emotions to arrive at a more nuanced, forgiving assessment.
I feel guilty when I put myself first.
I may be a people pleaser.
I have laughably low expectations of people, especially my parents.
I use unjustifiably harsh language in my negative self-talk.
I do things for others that I don’t benefit from, so maybe I’m not selfish after all?
The only thing I don’t catastrophise is actual life and death situations. Huh.
I am a people pleaser.
I have low self-esteem.
I have no self-esteem.
I hate myself, always have… always will?

It’s been a tumultuous four months as each fresh session revealed a part of me I did not know was there, a part I had to reconcile with all the other parts I thought were there but maybe weren’t there after all.

It’s been confusing, taxing, at times troubling. But, even though therapy has unearthed more questions than it answered, I am infinitely grateful to myself for the decision to start, and—it goes without saying—to my therapist whose comforting presence and unyielding support has carried me through the myriad twists and turns of my messed up mind.1

It’s a long road ahead. But it’s work worth doing. And I’m glad I’m doing it.

What do you think?

Do you go to therapy? If you do…

What reckoning have you had in therapy?

If you don’t go to therapy, is it something you’d consider? Why/why not? They say therapy is like brushing your teeth but for your mind. Yet I’m not one to defer to the wisdom of the crowd, and I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts on the matter. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who’s your safe space despite not being your therapist, or perhaps your actual therapist if it wouldn’t cross your line.