Get me to a counsellor….

I thought help would help, and as self-sufficient as I like to be regarded, I needed help. It seemed only sensible to draw on some professional help. Navigating through grief on my own wasn’t something I felt capable of.

Counselling was also something I felt uncertain about. I hadn’t participated in counselling before. Mottsu saw a psychologist for a couple of weeks and, ultimately, that hadn’t gone so well. There was no blame to be laid. I don’t exactly know what went on for him, but counselling didn’t kill Mottsu.

Along with being self-sufficient, I knew myself as critical of others, particularly others who might have been trying to help me. Sharing with a stranger was going to be difficult for me and woe-betide the counsellor across from me in the client’s seat. I decided to try up to five counsellors, before giving up on that avenue of potential support. Five counsellors? It must have been me against the world back then. Fortunately I made a pact with myself to be patient with the process and find someone with whom I had rapport and could work with. I decided there was no better option than counselling. Did I have another option?

Bereft and almost disabled by grief I was unsure of where to turn mainly because I didn’t know where to look, how to start. I didn’t know anybody who was in therapy, not anyone who saw a counsellor – it later turned out I did know quite a few who had that type of support, we just hadn’t talked about it back then.

There is something in Australian psyche where we are expected to suck it up or toughen up and get over it. That is how we are, asking for help didn’t come easily for me.

After a rocky start, I now unreservedly (not entirely without reserve but that’s another post) recommend counselling, I prefer to call it therapy – for me it is the treatment.