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Therapy or Just Paying Someone to Nod While You Cry?
Let’s talk about therapy. Or as I like to call it, Emotional Uber — you get in, spill your guts, pay an unreasonable amount, and leave slightly nauseous.
The first time I went to therapy, I thought I was going to get fixed. You know, like an IKEA nightstand for the soul. I imagined I’d walk in, say one or two sentences like, “I feel sad sometimes,” and then the therapist would hand me a laminated solution, a few mantras, and maybe a scented candle. Instead, she just blinked at me. Nodded slowly. Wrote something in a notebook I was 90% sure said, “Oh boy.”
But still — I committed. I sat on that overpriced mid-century couch, spilled my deepest fears, and tried really hard to pretend that sobbing through four tissues wasn’t embarrassing. It was self-care, okay? Even if my therapist mostly just sat there nodding like a supportive bobblehead.
Now, before the Therapy Industrial Complex comes for me, I’m not anti-therapy. I’m just anti-paying $150 an hour for someone to tell me that what I’m feeling is “valid.” I mean, so is my Amazon cart, but that doesn’t make it healthy.
It’s weird, though — people talk about therapy like it’s a badge of honor now. “Oh, I’ve been in therapy for five years,” they say, sipping their cold brew with the seriousness of someone who’s seen combat. And I’m…
