The Therapy Session that Changed Me
How direct words made the difference.
Usually, therapists aren't the type to tell you what to do. They’re more like a friendly guide, kind of like an English butler who bows in a gentlemanly manner and bids you to drink from the water he has led you to. I’m pretty sure directness is not in their job description.
That’s how my therapist was. Gail was her name, yes, her real name, and sometimes the way she danced around a subject drove me nuts. I’d think: Just tell me what to do already! You’re the professional…that’s why I’m paying you. But no, she’d ask leading questions and ramble here and there. Then she’d ask, “So, what do you think you should do?”
After a dozen sessions or so, I got the hang of it and actually started to see the value of me finding my own solutions. It’s true, that old saying, “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”
But then one night, she changed. She knew how much I loved playing racquetball and the vigorous exercise it was and how it helped me relieve stress. I told her that that week I’d lost my temper during a game and I described the white-hot rage I’d felt when I lost to someone I could easily beat. Then I told her that the simmering frustration lingered long into the next day.
She asked a bunch of questions and seemed really surprised by how competitive I was and how angry I got. Then she shocked me. She violated our little don’t-tell-me-what-to-do arrangement. She matter-of-factly stated, “Ken, I don’t think you should play racquetball anymore.”
I sucked in my breath. My mind went blank.
She said it again, as if enamored by her new-found frankness, “You shouldn’t play if you can’t keep your temper in check.”
I reeled, still struggling to get ahold of my thoughts, What? Not play racquetball…the activity that brings me so much joy? You can’t tell me that…why…you’re not supposed to tell me what to do.
Sitting across from me in that spacious office, she breathed in a contented breath, gave me a wry smile, folded her arms, and relaxed her shoulders. So there, she seemed to say.
Wide-eyed and still in a brain fog, I said, “You…you…you can’t tell me that.”
“Well, I just did and that’s what I think.” Unfazed, she continued to look at me warmly.
Then I got a little miffed and thought, So, that’s where you draw the line? After all the things I’ve told you, things about my marriage, about my knuckleheaded kids, about my dark thoughts…and you go and draw the line with my favorite sport?
Eventually I recovered my composure and accepted her challenge.
On the drive home, I kept playing our interaction over in my mind. Then I started to see her point. My temper was a real issue. It made me hot under the collar, my blood pressure would spike, and the anger would stick around for days. She had actually hit on something big here, and I had to take it seriously.
The next time I went to play, I just practiced by myself. My friends asked to join me, but I said no.
Then I entertained a most infantile thought: I’m not going to let Gail win. I’m going to prove I can handle my temper and play as much racquetball as I want.
So, I started paying close attention to my anger. I noticed the exact moment my body temperature started to rise. I watched myself go from having fun to furious. I started to look at my reactions like I was an observer, watching myself from outside my body. And when I felt the anger coming on, I’d take a break, walk around, gaze outside the back glass wall of the court at others working out. I would remind myself how lucky I was that an old fart like me could move around the court like I could. This new approach really worked, and I got much better at keeping my cool.
Turns out, I needed someone to be straight with me. I needed unfiltered truth. I needed someone to wake me up.
So, thank you, Gail. Thanks for laying me out. Thanks for not backing down and helping me change.
Maybe we all need a Gail in our lives. Because sometimes pointing to the water isn’t enough. Sometimes, we need someone to walk over to the creek, scoop out a cup of water, hand it to us, tell us to drink it, and stand there until we do.
