How to Get a Therapist

So now that you know why I’m in therapy, you might be wondering more about the process of how I found my therapist. How do you get from deciding to go to therapy, to sitting in a therapists office?

My preferred method is a lot like online dating. I like using Psychology Today, which shows you all the nearby therapists who have availability for new clients. You can search by zip code, their specialities, and their accepted insurance. You can even sort the therapists by their sexualities, genders, and faiths. As a bonus, therapists often include a bio of their experience, philosophies, and their preferred therapeutic approaches.

And just like with online dating–you get to make judgements about the qualities and talents of people based solely on their profiles.

I narrowed my search to therapists who specialized in “anxiety” and “depression,” and I got to judging. All male therapists were dropped immediately. Sorry, guys–I knew I’d feel more comfortable with a woman. Then all the younger therapists got the axe. I wanted someone with many years of experience and wisdom; the kind that only comes with age. Being older also increased the chances that my therapist would have grown children, which I secretly wanted because I felt like I needed to hear the perspective of parent who wasn’t my own (even though therapists typically don’t share that type of information with their patients). My final criteria was that my future therapist looked happy and friendly in their profile picture. I was depressed and feeling closed off; I needed someone warm and welcoming.

After some major cuts, I got to reading the bios. I nixed anyone who didn’t specialize in young adults, and then I dropped the therapists whose bios lacked personal flair–I needed to know the therapist had a personality as big as mine.

Some of you may be thinking I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for a therapist to the point of being obsessive. To which I say, yes, you are kind of right. But that doesn’t matter, because I was doing what was best for me at that time. And if it took scrutinizing therapists for several hours to get me to the therapy I so desperately needed, then so be it. I had to pick the right therapist on the first try. I was so exhausted from my depression and so fed up with my emotions that if I picked the wrong therapist, I knew it would take me several more months to renew my willpower to find another therapist. I couldn’t risk picking wrong because I couldn’t stand the thought of staying depressed a second longer.

Once you pick your chosen therapist, there is one final step: the phone call. Therapists typically ask to speak with you on the phone to learn more about you and why you want to go to therapy to ensure you will be a good fit for the them. It honestly feels like a first date. Will they like me? Do they think we’ll be compatible? I like them so much I hope they feel the same way.

I called my therapist of choice, the phone rang through, and her pre-recorded voice prompted me to leave a voicemail.

*Beep*

“Hi, my name is Olivia Vinkler, and…” the tears started to build as I hesitated, “I think I’m depressed?”

I began to cry, “I graduated from college about a year ago, and I haven’t really felt any true satisfaction with my life for a while.” Ouch; hadn’t really said that out loud before.

More tears. “I think I’m just dealing with regular, young adult stuff. Just feeling overwhelmed with post-grad life, living with parents, stress of work. You know, normal stuff.” But I knew the way I was feeling wasn’t my normal.

I tried to catch my breath, but couldn’t, so I choked out the rest of my message as best as I could: “And, I, uh, definitely don’t feel like myself and I would really like to not feel this way anymore. Hope you can help me. Thanks.”

A few hours later, she called me back. I saw her number come through on my caller ID. I ran to my room and shut the door.

“Hi, Olivia. This is [insert therapist’s name], I got your message. Is now a good time?”

“Yeah, now is great!” I chirped, a little too confident. Instant tears. “Sorry, I’m a crier,” I sniffed.

“It’s okay,” the therapist said, “tell me what’s been going on.”

So I did. I told her about the blow out fight with my parents, my frustration at work, my feelings of stagnation. I told her how I hadn’t felt like myself for over a year. I told her how I never had energy, and how I could hardly bring myself to do any of the things that would make me feel better. How I felt disinterested in my own life. I poured my heart out to her, and bless her for being able to understand me through my tears.

The more I poured out, the lighter I felt. While I had been honest with my loved ones that I was depressed, I hadn’t shared everything that was gnawing away at me. It felt incredible to be able to tell this voice on the phone everything that had been weighing me down, to finally put it all out into the open.

“Well, Olivia,” my therapist began.

I held my breath. Just because you choose someone to be your therapist, doesn’t mean they’ll chose you to be their patient. Again, it’s like dating. Imagine opening yourself to someone, only for them to tell you that while you are lovely, they just don’t feel the same connection you do. “You are a wonderful person, and I think you need to get help, too. But it’s not you, it’s me. You belong with someone else.”

“How does this Wednesday sound for our first session?” Fortunately for me, I wouldn’t have to find someone else.