The posts in this blog may include affiliate links. This means that when you decide to purchase anything through these links I get a small commission at NO extra cost to you.
Why I’m Having Counselling For the First Time
July 2024
Six weeks. That’s how long it took me to realize that I needed help. I found myself pacing outside the therapist’s office, questioning if this was really the answer. Was talking to a stranger going to magically sort me out? I had my doubts.
“Gemma?” A voice pulled me back to reality. I turned to see her standing at the door. “I saw you pacing. Why don’t you come on in?”
The room was cosy. Soft cushions, calming colours, everything designed to make you feel safe. She sat across from me, looking friendly but waiting. I’d sent her an email the week before, saying my Dad had died and that, well, I wasn’t coping. Not in the dramatic, life-is-over way, but in the slow, confusing way where everything felt like it was happening to someone else.
Since the morning with Alfie, I hadn’t cried. Instead, I’d done what many people do when life throws them a curveball. I got busy. Death admin, cremation planning, sorting through paperwork. I threw myself into it, thinking I’d deal with my feelings later. Except, later arrived, and I still didn’t know what to do with myself.
For fifty minutes, I talked. I talked about how he’d been diagnosed with cancer in February, how we were told we had a year, and how we only got three months. I talked about my anger. Not just at the universe, but at him, for smoking, for ignoring me every time I begged him to quit. I felt cheated. We’d been promised more time. I hadn’t even figured out how to say goodbye yet, and it was already over.
That’s the thing about grief though. It doesn’t care about timelines or plans. It just bulldozes through your life, and all you can do is try to make sense of the rubble. So, that’s what I started to do, one therapy session at a time.
September 2024
I’m twelve sessions into therapy, and honestly, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. When I walked into her office for the first time, I had this idea that I’d talk about my dad and his death, maybe cry a bit, and then magically feel lighter. Like some weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying would just float away.
Spoiler: that’s not how it went. Yes, I’ve cried—a lot—but I’ve also laughed, unexpectedly. I’ve talked about Dad, of course, but I’ve also ended up talking about my mum, my work, my friends, even the awful bullying I experienced in school. It’s funny, the way therapy digs up things you thought were long buried. Turns out, they’re not buried at all.
The most surprising part? How exhausting it is to talk about yourself when you’ve never really done it before. It’s like opening the floodgates and then wondering why you feel so wiped out afterwards.
I never thought I’d be the type of person to go to therapy. If my parents taught me one thing, it’s that you either solve your own problems or wait for them to disappear. That’s basically how I’ve managed my life so far. Until now.