Therapy is strange…

Therapy is strange.

Imagine explaining it to an alien.

"Well, once a week I go and sit in a room with a person I've never met before. I tell them things I've never told anyone else. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I complain about my mother. Occasionally I have a breakthrough about why I always volunteer for things I don't want to do. Then I leave feeling exhausted but somehow lighter."

The alien would probably blink several times and slowly back away.

How did we get here?

It usually begins with a Google search at 11:47pm, whilst you’re lying awake with a mind full of questions.

After you've spent three hours searching:

• Why do I feel overwhelmed all the time?"

• "Am I burnt out?"

• "Can stress make you forget why you walked into a room?"

• "Therapist near me."

You then find yourself staring at dozens of photographs of smiling professionals holding mugs. Every therapist appears to own the same mug.

You read their profiles.

"I’m Integrative."

"I’m Humanistic."

"I practice Psychodynamic Psychotherapy."

You nod thoughtfully despite having absolutely no idea what any of these words mean.

Eventually, you choose one based on a highly sophisticated scientific process involving intuition, availability, and whether they look like they would survive a zombie apocalypse.

Then comes the email. You spend twenty minutes drafting three sentences.

You delete "Dear Sir/Madam."

You delete "Help."

You settle on something that sounds reassuringly normal:

"Hello. I'm interested in therapy."

As though you're enquiring about double glazing. Then the therapist replies. And all of a sudden, it becomes real.

The First Session

The first session is a rather unique and strange human experience.

For a start, you've willingly arranged to meet a complete stranger and discuss things you've barely admitted to yourself.

You arrive early, or late. There is no middle ground.

You sit down and immediately become aware of every part of your body. The internal dialogue starts… “What do people do with their hands?”, “Why have I forgotten how chairs work?”, “Am I making eye contact too much?” “Not enough?”

The therapist asks a perfectly reasonable question:

"What brings you here?"

And your mind, which has been rehearsing this answer for approximately six weeks, responds with:

"...I don't know."

Excellent start.

You don’t need to know what to say. You don’t even have to know where to begin. That is not a failure of preparation, it’s just what the first session is. It’s strange.

The Things We Think Are Rules

Then there are the rules we imagine exist.

By the second session, many clients have unconsciously decided that therapy is a bit like visiting a particularly emotional library. There must be regulations. Expectations. A correct way to behave.

Then it happens.

You're describing a difficult situation. Perhaps your boss has been impossible. Perhaps your ex has reappeared with the timing and judgment of a wasp at a picnic. Perhaps life has simply become too much. And before you can stop yourself, out comes:

"It was just so fucking frustrating."

You freeze.

"Oh God, sorry."

The therapist nods.

You continue.

"No, sorry, I shouldn't swear."

Then, because you've now noticed that you've sworn, you become aware of every swear word you've ever uttered in your entire life.

"Sorry. I don't normally talk like this."

At which point your therapist may smile and say:

"I really don't give a shit if you swear."

Silence.

The client's eyes widen. The therapist just swore. The world tilts slightly on its axis.

Because here's another strange thing about therapy: therapists are people. Most of us aren't secretly grading your language. We're interested in what you're trying to express.

Sometimes "I'm feeling somewhat irritated" isn't the truth. Sometimes the truth is "I'm absolutely fed up with this." And sometimes the strongest feeling in the room arrives wearing a swear word.

If that's the word that fits, use it.

The Things We Say

Then something remarkable happens. You begin talking. At first it's the polished version.

The sensible version. The version you've told friends, family, colleagues and yourself.

"I'm just a bit stressed." Everything sounds manageable, contained and reasonable.

Then somewhere around minute twenty-three your brain decides to betray you.

You hear yourself saying:

"And obviously I haven't told anyone this because..."

You stop.

The room goes quiet. The therapist waits.

You realise you've accidentally wandered into the exact territory you had promised yourself you weren't going to discuss. You had a plan. You were going to talk about work. Maybe sleep.

Absolutely not that thing. Yet here it is. Sitting in the middle of the room.

 The Confession You Didn't Mean To Make

One of therapy's strangest features is that secrets often emerge sideways.

Nobody kicks down the door demanding honesty. There are no interrogation lamps.

No dramatic soundtrack.

Instead, you find yourself casually mentioning something you thought would stay hidden forever. Like accidentally dropping your house keys while insisting you weren't carrying any.

You might say: "It's silly really..." then you keep going. Or "This probably isn't important..." and then you say it anyway. Or everyone's favourite "I've never told anyone this before." Followed by telling someone, for the first time, right now.

The therapist doesn't gasp. They don't leap out of their chair. They don't ring a bell and announce, "At last! We've found the issue!"

They simply stay with you in it.

Which turns out to be a surprisingly powerful thing. Because often the thing we've been carrying for years sounds very different once it exists outside our heads. Smaller, sometimes. Or even more manageable or just, finally, real.

The Unexpected Relief

This is perhaps the strangest part of all.

You spend weeks, months, sometimes years worrying about what might happen if you say something out loud.

Then you say it, and the ceiling doesn't collapse. The therapist doesn't run screaming from the room.  The Earth continues rotating.

The secret loses some of its weight, and with it, a little of the space it’s been taking up. Not gone, but no longer something you’re holding entirely alone.

Because that’s the thing. It was never just a secret itself, it was the effort of keeping it. The constant low hum carrying something no one else could see.

Saying it out loud doesn’t fix it. But it means you don’t have to carry it in the dark anymore.

The Good Kind of Strange

When people ask what therapy is like, I sometimes think the honest answer is this:

It's a bit like clearing out the loft. You start looking for one thing. You discover seventeen boxes you forgot existed. You find some treasures. A few cobwebs. Several mysteries. And at least one item that leaves you wondering what version of yourself thought that was a good idea.

It's messy. Unexpected. Occasionally uncomfortable. Often surprising. Sometimes funny in places you didn't expect. And usually worthwhile.

So yes, therapy is strange.

You search for a stranger online.

You meet them in a room.

You apologise for swearing.

They swear back.

You tell them things you've never told anyone.

Sometimes you accidentally reveal the very thing you intended to hide.

And somehow, through this peculiar process, life can begin to make a little more sense.

When you think about it, that's a very strange thing indeed.

And perhaps a rather wonderful one.