Seven things we learned from going to therapy
The FisherPaulsons graduated therapy on Wednesday, Oct. 14. It took us three years to finish a yearandahalf course.
This is not our first time. Back in the ’ 70s, Nurse Vivian took me to my first analyst. I’m not sure if she was trying to cure me, but the therapist didn’t blink. He talked to me for 15 minutes before he said, “Mrs. Paulson, this isn’t the right time for therapy for Kevin. If you, however, have a few minutes to talk, I think Kevin would show significant progress.”
I went back for both of my midlife crises, and then came the boys. Since Zane was about 2, we’ve seen around seven psychiatrists and 22 therapists — and only three of them left the field after us.
One appointment lasted 49 minutes, leading my husband Brian to comment, “Your blind dates lasted longer.”
During our first session, we were asked to draw pictures of the family as animals. While Brian got drawn as an owl, a panther, a fox and dragon, all four of us depicted me as a dog. Then we did superheroes. Turns out Brian’s the masked marvel. I’m the sidekick.
So this is not our first psychoanalysis — and it won’t be our last. It’s more like graduation from middleschool therapy.
Aidan was the valedictorian, Zane the salutatorian. Brian earned a diploma with a major in patience. Buddyboy, Bandit and Queenie have support dog status. Me, I graduated sine laude, no honor whatsoever. Instead of degrees, we got diagnoses.
After our last appointment, we stuffed our faces with Mitchell’s ice cream to celebrate. A smorgasbord that started with grasshopper pie and ended with dulce de leche.
Oreos in mint ice cream for dinner might not seem normal, but that’s not what we were shooting for. We were celebrating that we were brave enough to ask for help and patient enough to see it through.
We celebrated the wins, the lessons learned:
1. Know when you’re in over your head. At some point, we all lose it. For me, it was probably the afternoon that Aidan got his head stuck in a staircase, but each of us gets to give up at some point.
2. It’s OK to phone a friend. The friend will remind you how much you love your children. But know this: Your friends will have sympathy, not answers.
3. This isn’t the measles. You don’t have it one week and then never again.
4. Don’t judge. This rule applies to you readers.
Twenty years ago, I was one of those “Whycan’tthatmotherkeepherchildquietontheairplane” people. Time has humbled me.
I’ve been the parent standing in the middle of the street with a son lying down in a San Francisco intersection. The chief of police herself tried to get him out, but he wouldn’t budge.
Next time you see a child screaming while throwing a bowl of spaghetti at Olive Garden, do
not assume that the parent is a failure. Assume that they are doing their best.
And when you yourself are the parent sitting on the curb watching your son and the chief of police argue, remember the words of Oscar Wilde, “We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
5. The first six rounds of therapy don’t count.
6. A teenager’s resentment has a very short shelf life. 7. Lower your expectations. Don’t focus on wanting your child to go to Notre Dame, become a doctor or reinvent the laws of physics. Instead, strive for your child to be happy.
Last lesson, for now: Children don’t remember lessons, but they will remember love.
After our last appointment, we stuffed our faces with Mitchell’s ice cream to celebrate. A smorgasbord that started with grasshopper pie and ended with dulce de leche.