How To Even…Talk Therapy

How To Even…
6 min readFeb 18, 2021

By Michael Gushue & CL Bledsoe

First off, let’s get this out of the way. We don’t go to therapy — never have and never will! Therapy is for crazy people, and we’re not crazy, no matter what our therapists say. WAIT. Ignore that last bit.

We kid; a therapist would never say that — especially not the ‘c’ word (“credit”). They would just furiously scribble things down while you talk about your clearly unhealthy behaviors, and then go talk to their own therapist about what supreme fuck ups we are. In this way, we are stimulating the economy, creating jobs for therapists’ therapists, and generally saving democracy in some poorly defined but totally real way. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Maybe we go to therapy for an emotional tune up, or maybe we go because people, amirite? Regardless, there are a lot of misconceptions about therapists. For example, there’s the idea that going to a therapist is like paying for a friend. This is not true. Paying for a friend is much more rewarding — in the short term. (We’re talking about sex.) Also, a therapist will call you on your bullshit and probably remember your name. Also also, there’s this idea that therapy is only for deeply damaged people. We challenge you to find someone in the world who isn’t deeply damaged. That guy? No, he’s fucked up. You? Come on. Look, we’re not judging, we’re just saying. Come on.

Personal Anecdote Intended To Fool the Rubes Into Thinking We’re One of You (True Story)

I started going to therapy when I was in college. My therapist was a grad student in the psychology department — it was like going to a barber college for a cheap haircut, but instead of hair, it was my ability to feel joy. Or something. I started going because I filled out a questionnaire at the student health center, where I went to have a cyst lanced (sorry). Apparently, whatever I wrote freaked them out, because they wouldn’t let me leave until I’d scheduled therapy. They even called me when I got home to make sure I’d scheduled it. So, apparently I was fucked up.

My therapist looked like a young Elvis. We met right after lunch time. He had intestinal issues, and would…