Opal, a Blanket, and My First Real Therapy Session

My very first session with Opal wasn’t some quiet, Zen-like breakthrough — it was me blurting out my greatest hits of dysfunction at auctioneer speed, while she calmly wrote C-PTSD in giant red letters like it was the title of my memoir.

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The phone call to the therapist who changed my life (I’ll call her Opal) was not funny. At all. I know I promised humor, but truthfully? It was 7 PM at the office, long after everyone had left, and I was still there: sitting cross-legged on the floor of a tiny conference room, arguing with my ex over finances, screaming and sobbing while simultaneously updating a spreadsheet. Picture one half of the screen: formulas; the other half: release notes. I hung up on him and I opened a new tab: non-talk therapy. Something was very wrong, and I knew it.

Thing is, I already had a therapist then. Sweet woman, but talk therapy did nothing for me. It never had. Exhibit A:

Therapist 1: “You might be bipolar. Or schizophrenic. You talk to yourself a lot. Or it could be the autism. I’ll refer you.” Goes home with more shame.

Therapist 2: “So when are you going to be satisfied with yourself? There’s a lot of shame there. Journal on that.” Goes home dissociated.

Therapist 3: Sobbed when I told her about my past, then imagined I was her 14-year-old daughter. I spent the session regulating her. Goes home feeling like a freakshow.

Then there was one who wasn’t bad. But she was too nice. And very Christian. Every session felt like I was secretly sinning. Result: more shame.

Then came Opal. She had tattoos of mushrooms, and a fairy. Good start. Her office reminded me of that scene in the Bourdain documentary where he’s lying down talking to his therapist. Same vibe — except I grabbed a blanket because it was basically 50 degrees in there. Wonder what that was about.

We’d already done a quick TL;DR intake.

“So, how’d you like to spend our time today?” she asked.

“Opal, I would literally do anything you tell me to, if it fixes whatever the fuck is wrong with me.”

“I don’t think anything’s wrong with you. But why don’t you just talk? It’s safe. I’ll take notes.”

So I unloaded:

“I’m a huge fuck-up. Second divorce already. Who am I, Thanos? Collecting the Infinity Stones and snapping my fingers to pause life for a second — that’s what I’d like to do. Can’t sleep. Always on edge. Doing a spreadsheet feels like diffusing a bomb. I’m good at a lot of things — hyper-focused — but I’m exhausted and never resting. I take pills, I fall asleep, I wake up. My memory’s shot. I’ll meet someone five times and introduce myself again like it’s the first encounter; they think I’m rude, I’m not. Relationships? My exes call me avoidant, others call me anxious. I Googled myself and decided I must be anxious-avoidant. But what even is that? Should I fully ‘fix’ myself before I get into another relationship? I don’t know if I love or hate my family. A few people get me, but I move away, so I never build community. I rescue people, then disappear. Once, in my first marriage, I let a homeless guy live with us after rescuing several animals back to back. Two years ago I punched someone in the face because they threatened my friend and me — and this was right after I landed a Harvard gig. Why am I like this? I gave my ex my life savings without a second thought so he could be happy. I just want to be normal. Am I bipolar? Am I Kanye West? Please tell me I won’t end up a Black Nazi.”

She laughed. I laughed. The kind of laugh that makes you snort.

“That was fucking hilarious. No, you’re not bipolar.” She flipped her notebook around.

At the top, in big red ink: C-PTSD. She circled the C.

“Classic Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she said. “Your body has no idea how to relax because it’s been in survival mode. If you want to talk, we can. But when you’re ready, we’re going to have to feel. I know — you don’t know how. You are completely disconnected from your body. We’ll reconnect you. Also: you are a fucking badass for everything you’ve survived and done so far. Relationships are hard for everyone. You deserve connection — it’s a fundamental need. The right people will meet you there. Mostly, you’re a badass for stepping in here. This shit is not for the weak.”

Ah, Opal. I wish we could have grabbed a beer.