“The principle aim of psychotherapy is not to transport one to an impossible state of happiness, but to help (the client) acquire steadfastness and patience in the face of suffering.”
– C.G. Jung
I had rather an odd session with my therapist yesterday. We talked about the issues at work and with my mother, but didn’t really get into anything “nasty”. I’m not upset about that – it just felt weird.
I mentioned the weirdness to my therapist. She said it’s ok to be dealing with whatever’s top of mind; that we don’t always have to deal with the deep negative issues. We will deal with them – it just doesn’t have to happen every session, and it’s probably better if it doesn’t.
This got me thinking about the mysteries of therapy.
When I entered therapy it was primarily to deal with a few pressures in life – my father’s illness and endless intensity at work. Ok, so I always knew there were a few broken pieces to mend, but I hadn’t really thought now was the time.
I thought I’d see this therapist a couple of times – that she’d tell me ‘it’s ok’ and give me something to “fix” me.
Of course, that didn’t happen. Instead she started rooting around and found a whole cosmos of “stuff” to deal with.
I’m increasingly realising that I like to run to the end. Get me to the damned destination – who cares about the journey?
Problem is, it seems to me that therapy is as much about the journey as the destination, if not more so. Even my therapist has said she senses that I thought I’d go into therapy, vomit forth some toxic junk, then appear magically at the end. Well, yes. Who wouldn’t want that?
So how do we get to that magical destination? Is there even a destination after all? Or is this all some strange mind game like the Matrix?
I don’t know. Do you?