I used to think I was great at therapy. From 17 to 23, I saw a total of four therapists for anywhere between two weeks and three months. Each time, I would sit in their quiet, softly furnished rooms and reel off the story of why I was there: my mum had been diagnosed with terminal cancer when I was 15 and given six months to live. She survived, but I continued to live in fear as she relapsed, then went into remission and finally died four years later. I gave them the narrative, talked about how my relationships or work were adding to my stress, then took on their tips, from cognitive behavioural therapy to mindfulness.
I was a conscientious student, eager to implement their advice so I could continue coping. Once my allotted number of sessions was up, I would leave, knowing that if things began to feel stressful again, I could return and pick up new strategies. Therapy was a tool and I felt confident using it.
