The Gods and Goddesses are against me!

by Mary Spring

Personal therapy could be likened to a long and winding road. Often times, you might say, it’s a long and winding and very testing road. And that’s before I even enter the room. Traversing the pedestrian- unfriendly road infrastructures of Galway city and trying to negotiate its bewildering light systems frequently makes this journey a harrowing event. I have been knocked down by a marauding cyclist who saw nothing untoward with cycling like crazy on a footpath. Hit from behind, this incident subsequently necessitated two shoulder surgeries and has resulted in me being more fearful than fearless when out and about.

Other challenges have befallen me. You might not believe this but on one occasion I was walking through town on my way to personal therapy when a bird, from on high, shat on my head. Though not necessarily prompting an existential crisis, I was, nonetheless, randomly shat on. Seriously. My head. No one else’s, as far as I could note. Not in the habit of screaming or shrieking, never mind squealing, I felt the uncomfortable wet plop, and silently wept and died inside. Quickly bypassing Supermac’s which was on my doorstep, I dived into a nearby hotel’s rest room. There I gained a sense of feigned composure and equilibrium and continued on my way to my weekly session.

The long and winding road to therapy has presented other challenges. In early January, a few years ago, I reached the entrance to the therapist’s room, only to find that the outer gate was not just closed but also locked. I can only describe this experience as the equivalent of the straw breaking the camel’s back. The symbolism of a locked gate was not lost on me. Feeling my anger acutely roused, I sent a brusque four-worded text message to the therapist: “Outer gate is locked”. Once I got into the room I was really upset, angry and hurt and, undoubtedly, threading on older shut doors in my life. On another day, I tripped and fell while ascending the stairs to the therapist’s room. My takeaway coffee went everywhere and I felt like a very young helpless child and a proper idiot as the therapist dried up the spillage with a magically acquired mop. Though it can be a useful prop, I have now decided never, ever again to bring a cup of coffee into the session. I have lovely childhood memories of coffee, invariably Maxwell House or Nescafe, being made by my mother – granules and sugar were creamily pasted together with a spoon of water and then the cup was filled to the brim with boiling milk. It was a latte before coffee became an art form in the ‘90s. Now, however, a modern-day latte cannot be enjoyed while in a therapy session, particularly if it might spill over beforehand while climbing the stairs. It’s not the same as having a cuppa up the town with my almond milk latte-drinking buddy Art, though perhaps that’s what I might have been looking for on the occasions I brought a cuppa with me into therapy – something friendly, cosy and comfortable or perhaps even something older and more familial and rooted in the dining room of my childhood home.

On returning to my parked car from another session, I once saw that my car had been clamped. Relieved of €120 I could only conclude that the gods and the goddesses were and continue to be against me. I’m certain of it. Added to these experiences have been the near weekly battles with westerly winds and gales that blow in from the nearby Atlantic. I have buried in bins at least five umbrellas rendered useless. Such are the landmines I have occasionally walked through before and, indeed, after a therapy session.

And even within the hour-long session, things sometimes go haywire and moments are encountered, moments I can only describe as weird. Strange things happen. One Monday, a sheet of vertical blinds, positioned as in a phalanx, collapsed as I spoke. Two sets of eyebrows arched in unison. Was this a sign of something ominous or something positively symbolic and instructive? Was light coming in to the work? Was my well-honed defensive shield dropping away as I entered more and more into a trusting therapeutic relationship. My water bottle has spilled over. More symbolism perhaps of necessary spillage, of opening flood gates, of releasing tightly contained aspects of my life.

I since have googled to see who the god or goddess of therapy is, and the ancient Greek god Asclepius, with his serpent-entwined staff and his impressive CV seems to fit the bill. I have it on good authority that he was the son of Apollo and Coronis and that the centaur Chiron taught him the art of healing. I’m seriously thinking of making contact with Asclepius. The name Asclepius is a bit of a mouthful and I could see myself tripping over its pronunciation. I’m wondering does he use a shortened form – Clepi? Assee? Pius? Pi? We need to talk, however. I continue to believe that I have been rather hard done by. The gods and the goddesses seem to be against me, don’t you think?

Mary Spring is an accredited psychotherapist with IACP. She has a private practice in Galway city and is a tutor/lecturer with ICPPD.

IAHIP 2023 - INSIDE OUT 100 - Summer 2023