I've Never Met My Therapist
Read Time: 6 Minutes
Words by Christine Carpenter
For over a year, I have been working with a therapist whom I have never met. Over 50 hours spent divulging to her my innermost secrets and fears, revealing so much of the rawness of who I am, and I have yet to sit in her company.
In March of 2020, after months of resisting mental health counseling for the challenges I was facing while pregnant, I finally surrendered and contacted a therapist specializing in maternal mental health. As the world began to take pause, our first appointment was adjusted from a meeting in her office to a virtual visit. Frightened and immensely shy, I opted for a phone call rather than a video session. This experience with therapy has been enormously positive, and I often wonder how much the level of comfort, and therefore the progress I’ve experienced has to do with the fact that I am not required to look this person in the eyes. A phone relationship has allowed me to avoid the shame I normally endure when sharing my anxieties with others. My relationship with therapy is a paradox; a level of intimacy and unveiling so deep, and an enormous comfort in confiding discreetly over the phone.
In the trenches of antenatal depression (though I didn’t even have a name for what I was feeling while I muddled through it), my husband did everything he could do to keep me afloat. My fingers surged with adrenaline; waves of anxiety and nerves overcame me. Society dictated that I should be glowing and instead, I found myself sinking into an abyss of intense fear and unease. It was a pit from which I could not excavate myself, and instead, I fell deeper and deeper as the days and prenatal milestones ticked by. I followed along on an app, torturing myself by cross-reference Googling potential complications and worst-case childbirth scenarios. I knew labor was going to hurt, I knew I would need an IV (I am needle phobic and this is a huge fear of mine), and it was happening in my most dreaded setting—a hospital. Unpleasant thoughts plagued me, whirring through my mind, as panic attacks surfaced while I dragged my heavy body down Fifth Avenue five days a week to my office.
With much urging from my husband, a high school health teacher, and a supporter of therapy and counseling, I finally decided that I needed to seek help outside of confiding in my family and friends. Oddly enough, the final push I needed to make the decision came from a quote from Instagram that a good friend sent to me. It read;
“No one even mentioned it – in nine whole months, not one person said, ‘You’re about to meet someone entirely new. And it’s not your baby, it’s going to be you.’”
This was shared by an account called @fourthtrimestercollective and I was so intrigued by the quote that I began scrolling through their profile. I learned that Fourth Trimester Collective is a perinatal resource guide and decided to send a direct message requesting pregnancy psychology resources. Within a few hours, I received a list via Instagram direct messenger consisting of over 85 local therapists with an encouraging message from a woman who expressed that she shared a similar experience. She ended the message with: “It’s so amazing you’re seeking out support, you are so brave.” I was incredibly grateful for her response, and yet if I could have mustered it, I would have laughed at the absurdity of her comment. It was so out of context with my pain. I hardly felt brave. I felt weak, incompetent, and incapable. Physically, I was experiencing an “easy” pregnancy, so why couldn’t I just enjoy it?
Within a few weeks, I had an appointment with a therapist. I was extremely nervous to meet her, and also somewhat relieved – often with my anxiety, making the phone call to schedule an appointment is the most difficult step. A few days before our meeting, she notified me that we would instead be having a phone or zoom session, as a precaution due to the covid-19 pandemic. Relief washed over me. I could avoid a face-to-face session. Little did we both know that we would be continuing our weekly talks by phone over a year later. Being the incessant note-taker that I am, I opened up my Notes App on my phone and began outlining my fears and talking points that I wanted to bring up in our session. I remember confiding in her;
“I feel a little like I’m on an island by myself,” I explained. I read things about postpartum and childbirth traumas and there is a plethora of support out there for these women. There are photos all over my Instagram feed, women pictured with sagging extra postpartum skin, sporting mesh undies and clutching their babies to their chests, looking deeply melancholy. Yet, there are no pictures of depressed pregnant women...only glowing, excited, expectant mothers. Where is the support for pregnant women who are suffering?
“I’m not looking forward to the arrival of my son, to being a mother, to any of this. I’m terrified of giving birth,” I admitted, choking back tears. “I like my life. I don’t want it to change.”
It was mortifying confessing these thoughts to anyone, let alone someone I never met, over a phone call. My fear inhibited me from being even slightly excited. I felt like a horrible person and a horrible mother before I even had the chance to become one.
“What is my problem?” I questioned.
“Shaming yourself pounds the nails into the idea that this isn’t normal or right,” my new therapist responded. And I knew it was true. Shame has always been the ultimate source of my pain. It felt humiliating to have the “baby blues” before my baby even arrived. I felt so alone in that. I didn’t know anyone pregnant and drowning the way I was; I was flooded with shame. The embarrassment amplified these thoughts because it left no room for my feelings.
I reflect on this conversation, and the many sessions that have occurred over the past year, and I’m not certain that I would have been able to be this candid had I been face-to-face with my therapist. It is appealing to disclose sacred spaces, the intimate inner workings of my fears, and not have to look her in the eyes. A fellow writing friend of mine said that it reminded her of her youth when she would call a friend and talk for hours on the phone, before social media or other rapid means of communication. This resonates. I recall the cordless phone lying dead underneath my pillow after being occupied on a three-way call with my best friends. My phone relationship with my therapist is similar; a safe space because I can share beyond the limits of my comfort level with a sense of ease that otherwise would not be accessible. The level of shame diminishes.
Now, restrictions are lifting, and soon it will be feasible to meet with my therapist and unleash my feelings in her presence. Yet, as comfortable as I feel confiding on the phone and listening to her wisdom, as connected as I feel to her, I hesitate to step foot into her office. This has little to do with the comfort level she has given me, and much to do with my own insecurities. I’ve unveiled my deepest self to someone I have never met, but it has all been behind closed doors. Meeting her and pouring the words of my soul would be akin to showing up to her office for the first time, completely naked. The comfort and security in shielding myself from judgment, from exposure of my biggest insecurities, lies in the option of hiding behind my phone, jotting notes, and remaining in control. My therapist has heard me heave sobs, cry uncontrollably, but she has not seen my silent tears when a realization occurs, or when I feel guarded, fearful, or hurt. I possess more control over the situation in this way, and I like it.
The CDC has recently made adjustments to regulations regarding facial coverings in public, and yet I remain masked; both literally and figuratively. My face, hot with shame, is enveloped in a pleated paper mask concealing my fears, insecurities, and uncertainties. I am reluctant to bare my face to a woman who already lies on the receiving end of the bearing of my soul.
I remind myself, I am a different person now. I’ve come so far. Confronting my biggest fears last year was an evolution of self. If I can give birth at the height of a global pandemic, if I can embrace all of the life changes motherhood has brought forth with grace and joy, I can do anything.
Maybe I’ll meet my therapist this fall when she begins seeing clients in her office again. Maybe then, I’ll be able to hang up my mask, the one suspended from my ears and the one I keep to guard my shame and reveal my new, confident smile.
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About the Author:
Christine Carpenter is a writer from New York. She is passionate about composing and sharing her journey through her words, with an intent to make women feel less alone in motherhood and creative living. She enjoys knitting, reading and relishes time with her family.
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