Therapy: The Hardest Goodbye
- Manan Dhuldhoya
- 1 day ago
- 4 min read
I’ve bid lovers tearful goodbyes. I’ve sobbed them to my mother as I lit her pyre. But having to say goodbye to a therapist was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Twice, that too.
Therapy, as anyone familiar with it, is a process that becomes a journey. As a writer and creative director born and bred in Mumbai, I am no stranger to starting a journey without a clear idea of its destination. As a lifelong procrastinator, I begin far fewer journeys than I ought to.
You never forget your first
Janaki and I hit it off right from the start. Whilst I had tried another therapist for one session, I began going to regular therapy with Janaki after seeing we seemed like a good fit. (I say ‘going to’ because, in the days before “pandemic” was a familiar word, one actually went in and met one’s therapist. in-person)
Her calm yet firm manner, coupled with the blanket of confidentiality was crucial in allowing me to lay myself bare and approach my issues quicker than I expected.
We started with the anxiety. Working on a root-cause approach helped uncover what my causes triggers, for the anxiety were. Techniques like 5-4-3-2-1 helped me ground when I felt myself spiralling. Uncovering and understanding my traumas and their resultant patterns helped greatly lessen the panic attacks that would jerk me awake at night.
P for Pandemic
A little over half a year later, COVID-19 forced us all indoors and I learned to call, over Zoom, into my sessions with Janaki. Two months after India went into lockdown, my mother passed away in my arms. Those early weeks were a blur, but Janaki’s presence during our calls and sessions was a comfort I remain grateful for.
One year and a lot of progress later, our sessions moved from weekly to fortnightly. One September morning, as that session drew to a close, Janaki also brought our time together to an end. She was expecting and taking a break to focus on her pregnancy and the subsequent child-rearing. As happy as I was for her, I was deflated, so I felt comforted when Janaki mentioned that she’d be happy to recommend a therapist I could continue my work with. Enter Mark.
No second thoughts
Mark, Janaki’s first pick and my second therapist, was based in Goa, so we began remotely. A few months later, I moved there so we met in person. His approach to therapy was emergent, and I soon learned how much progress this new approach would bring.
Mark was measured. He had a way of being inscrutable when he wanted to (essential for maintaining boundaries) and openly warm when needed (essential for maintaining comfort).
With Mark, much of what I had felt whilst Janaki was my therapist returned, whilst still different. For instance, I felt the same eagerness to meet him as I did with Janaki. But while I met Janaki in her office, Mark was happy to meet at the promenade along the mouth of the Mandovi River and talk as we strolled to the sound of the waves. This pleased the thalassophile in me, and being outdoors and walking also brought a lot of vagal calm, something that I later understood helped make tough breakthroughs easier to accept.
An end to find a beginning
Around two years later, Mark noticed a trend; I was coming to therapy with not much to discuss. We’d talk, almost like we were catching up, and because Mark’s approach was emergent, he wouldn’t force a topic or structure.
He observed that I was increasingly bringing solved situations for validation, which led us to delve into why I was persisting with therapy. Comfort, clearly. More importantly, I was reluctant to give up the safest space I’d encountered.
I meandered for another year while Mark waited patiently for me to broach the topic I dreaded. I still remember that last session: sitting by the river, washing down onion fritters with a cup of tea, I turned to him and asked, “It’s time for the training wheels to come off, isn’t it?”. He smiled the “Mark smile” and replied, “If you’re ready”. I knew then that I was. I smiled nervously and asked, “Will I see you again?” and, for the first time ever, he replied only by smiling. I shook his hand and walked away to the sound of gulls calling as they wheeled above the waves.
The hardest goodbye
As I learned from my time with both Janaki and Mark, being in therapy is one of the most fundamentally unequal relationships one will willingly participate in. You strip yourself down to a degree of honesty that you’ve likely never done before and might not do again. You tell your therapist almost everything about yourself while they remain opaque, sharing even less than Google might throw up. As they must.
You know that they are bound by code not to betray your confidentiality, and this brings unshakeable safety to disrobing yourself of the cloaks you’ve learned to wear. And yet, they never let you see them for much more than the role you’re paying them for.
The fact that you’re paying them is sobering. You understand, as much as you want it to be otherwise, that they aren’t your friend. And, in time, you realise it is for your benefit. You feel an acceptance you’ve hungered for. You taste your truths.
You talk about the end of your therapeutic relationship, whilst you know fundamentally that you’ll never become friends in the future. Because that would require them to sit you down and fill you in on who they are and what made them who they are, like you’ve done over so many sessions. How else would you bring parity, something that is essential for a healthy friendship?
I can understand if comparing therapy ending to cremating my mother might seem unseemly. Before my therapy, I’d have felt the same. But while I had no choice in how and when my time with my mother ended, this is one ending that was of my choosing. Even if it hurt to have made that choice, especially since you know you can reach out, but shouldn’t.
As my time in therapy came to an end, I learned to make peace with the final truth: as much as I’m always going to be grateful to my therapists and want them in my life for longer, I can't. And that I’m never going to be more grateful for a ‘breakup’.
