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The thought of paying for therapy increases my blood pressure. Even with the money sitting in my account, the anxiety has such a tight grip on me that I can’t even bring myself to make the payment—I have someone else do it for me.

Why can’t I just get this on the NHS? Oh yeah—because the waiting lists are endless, and the right type of therapy isn’t even available.

Finding a therapist is its own circle of hell. I go through profile after profile, consultation after consultation, paid session after paid session. I analyse everything—every word, every action, every facial expression. Sometimes, the flaws I find are imagined. But I can’t help it—I have high expectations.

And the prices—how are some charging more than £120 an hour?

Many times, the first therapy session leaves me stunned. One therapist spends more than half the session talking about their own struggles, explaining how they can “relate” to my issues. Another talks too much about the methods they use and not actually using them.

Sigh. What’s the point? Maybe I should just pack a bag, fly off to some meditation retreat. At least then, I’ll get a holiday out of it.

Therapy isn’t like buying something tangible—it doesn’t offer quick fixes or even the promise of long-term results.

Sometimes, after a session, I sit and wonder,

Am I really paying someone to nod and agree with me? I should just call my friend to do that for me for free. I smirk.

My face drops..

I don’t have friends anymore.

Everyone left…

The webcam isn’t right—too much wall and not enough of me. I’m fiddling with the laptop, cursing under my breath as my blood pressure, along with my frustration, steadily rises. It’s 5:00 PM. Oh great! Now it’s 5:01 PM.

One whole minute lost from this very expensive therapy session.

I hit the “Join” button and try to compose myself on the sofa.

“Hello,” I say stiffly, resisting the urge to burrow my neck into my sweater.

The therapist smiles warmly. I immediately want to disappear into myself.

“Hello, how are you today?” she asks.

And there it is—that question at the beginning of every therapy session: How are you?
Do I dive into the deepest, darkest depths of my being, or go with the small-talk-weather nonsense, which, honestly, I couldn’t care less about?

“I’m good, how about you?” I reply.

“I’m good, thank you. The weather is much better today, so I’m happy.”

-_- The irony.