Why is counselling a dirty word?

Or is that just in the UK? Or is that just me?

For the last two years I’ve been pregnant, the mother of a newborn or dealing with cancer. Sometimes I’ve been more than one of those things at the same time. That’s meant that people have tended not to tell me about their problems. I guess that’s probably fair but, as I’m making my way back to Life-As-I-Knew-It, something is becoming more and more apparent. A lot of the people I care about are Not Okay.

I now need more than my two hands to count the number of friends who have recently been diagnosed with clinical depression, are waiting to see a doctor because they suspect they have depression, or are seriously in need of some mental help. Some friends are struggling with painful break ups, some are finding it hard to cope with the monumental changes of parenthood, some are swamped at work and drowning in self doubt, overwhelmed with financial strains, crying at work in the loos and just generally having a shit time. And if you’re my ‘real life’ friend and you think I’m writing about you here and you’re upset that I’ve broken a confidence, trust me, I promise, I’m not. There are lots of Yous in my life. I’m a You, too.

As I’ve reconnected with old pals, good pals, and intermittent pals (you know that person who you hardly ever see, but afterwards you feel like they’ve just given you a new lease of life? Them) a few have said to me in hushed tones “I think I had depression”. Actually, it’s usually, “I think I had a bit of depression”. A bit of depression. It seems like people feel the need to diminish their pain and brush it away. You don’t say you had a bit of a broken leg, do you? Or a bit of malaria? You’re ill. Something is stopping you function as normal, so you get help. You get a cast, or a tablet or a cream that stops it burning when you pee… Why are we afraid to say we need counselling?

So here’s my confession: I’m having counselling. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t have (and never have had depression) but I have felt so overwhelmed that I’ve cried on the bathroom floor while my daughter eats her breakfast in the next room. I have tried to say “I’m fine”, genuinely believing it, and wept instead. I have struggled to find the energy to reply to text messages from friends asking me how I am. I have, at times, been that person crying quietly on the tube. I recently had to hang up on the phone to the bank because the instructions to reset my banking passwords were too overwhelming (sorry Gary, from First Direct. It’s not you, it’s really me).

I am lucky to have been offered some free counselling from a local cancer charity. But it’s taken me over a year to do anything about it. I didn’t have time. So I said. Between doctors and oncologists and allergists and nurseries and radiotherapy and work, I just didn’t see how I could justify more hours devoted to myself that weren’t feeding and clothing myself and my daughter. Because I was mostly totally fine. Absolutely fine. Until you find yourself crying at a TV movie about robots (and not Wall-E, the crap one with Ewan McGregor). I used to find that writing these posts helped. But then people started reading what I was writing and I had to stop for a while. I convinced myself I wasn’t very good and people would soon realise. I still feel like that most days.

I’m not an expert in mental health. Not by far. I’ve had one session and it was quite nice. But I felt, and I feel, really guilty about going. I feel like I should be able to sort my shit out on my own. I feel like going is a slap in the face to the people who love me, and they won’t understand why I need to talk to stranger. I feel like going to a counsellor says “There’s something wrong with me” and I don’t really have an answer for what that is. Or if there is. I just know I need to talk to someone.

I feel ashamed about counselling in ways that make me ashamed (what a circular argument that is), because I would never want anyone else to be ashamed to go to a counsellor. I’m embarrassed (which is not the same as ashamed) and while I’ll tell people I’m seeing my doctor, or surgeon, or oncologist, I would never tell someone I’d just got back from a counselling session (although they might be able to tell from the state of my tear-streaked face behind my serene expression).

Of course, I addressed some of these issues about counselling and appearance with my counsellor. I’m hoping that it wasn’t just her deep desire to keep paying her mortgage that allowed her to completely convince me it was okay to want to see her. Even if I don’t need to. Because, I suppose, the idea is to see someone before I need to. Before I am curled up in a ball on a regular basis.

It’s not very British to talk to a complete stranger about your problems, and it’s not very Italian to not loudly and dramatically broadcast your entire life and woes to the world. So maybe I’m stuck in the middle and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.

Counselling (therapy, whatever you call it) it isn’t just a place to cry (although I’ve shed a few tears), and it’s not just a place to get advice (although there can be some of that). I don’t really know what it is. But I’m going to try and find out.

Don’t tell anyone, will you?

If you like this, pop a click over the clappy hands at the bottom, would you? More people will see it that way, and maybe more people will realise it’s ok to not be ok.