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I have a great therapist. Andie. Hard-Ass Andie, that’s what I call her. I’m lucky I have one at all. One that I can afford. She’s at our local Mental Health and Substance Use Clinic run by our provincial health authority. That means my counseling sessions are covered by our medical services plans, i.e., free. OK, we taxpayers pay for it, but I don’t pay directly out of pocket for her 50 minutes of wisdom.
Make Like a Pair of Pantyhose
But she is not, and I mean not like any therapist I would naturally gravitate towards. If she was a hairdresser, I would sit and listen politely during the consult. Once she finished making her "do" (as in "hairdo") recommendations, I’d quietly thank her, then make like a pair of pantyhose and run: jump into my car and squeal (the car, not me) out of the parking lot, never to face her again.
Why would I run? I’ve seen 15 therapists over my lifetime. That’s not something I brag about (ok sometimes it is). Eleven for individual counseling; 4 for couples counseling.
Each had a soft, nurturing manner. Andie... how to put this diplomatically…doesn’t. I needed "soft" in the past, but that was going to do diddley squat for me now. Though I didn’t know it.
Between Gulps of Tears and Shock
I phoned the clinic about five years ago and told the intake worker between gulps of tears and shock that I think my husband has a drinking problem and I need help. This is when Hard-Ass Andie appeared on the scene, and it couldn’t have been timelier.
I’d been racked with indecision about so many things in my life—one of which included leaving my marriage. I felt paralyzed. But paralysis felt more comfortable than making the decision to leave.
Andie is a stocky woman with short brown hair and no-nonsense glasses. She wears little or no jewelry, definitely no make-up, and has at least one tattoo running down the inside of her left arm. Her wardrobe is comfort-forward: flannel shirts worn over Ts with baggy pants. She’s direct, realistic, and practical with a sense of humour that often takes me by surprise.
Where’s the Book on Nickname Etiquette?
I told her in one of our sessions that I nicknamed her "Hard-Ass Andie." Then I thought better of it—maybe that sounds like an insult. I fell all over myself explaining that it was meant as a compliment of course, and well…fumble, fumble…oh god. Then I just looked away and stopped talking.
A gaping silence gobbled up the room. After a beat or two, she smiled and howled with laughter. “No, I think it’s funny,” and she kept on smiling. She doesn’t laugh a lot in our sessions, but when she does, we laugh together and loudly.
Now I brag to my friends about Hard-Ass Andie and tell Andie she has a fan club. There’s even a WWAD trend happening now. What Would Andie Do? During a heart-to-heart with a friend, we both got stymied by something. My friend said: ‘Hmmm, I wonder what Andie would say about that?’ That’s how popular her wisdom is.
Severely Depressed. Whatcha Gonna Do About It?
On a phone session, I lay on my couch, grey-faced, almost comatose. I was severely depressed.
“What are you going to do about it?” That’s what she said.
I’d never been more offended in my life. Wasn’t she supposed to soothe me? Tell me she understood and it’s going to be ok?
Apparently not. And thank God. It’s like how sometimes the best thing is to throw someone into a cold shower to wake them up. I thought I had no agency but she reminded me I did.
She asked what’s one thing I could accomplish today and one thing I could look forward to? Damn, she wanted me to think for myself. I told her I’d go outside for fresh air and watch a rerun of Friends. Oh, and have a shower.
“Good.” She said. I felt a tiny twinge of "better." What a relief. I didn’t need reassurance; I needed a push. Originally from Montreal, she speaks with a Quebecois accent. Her voice is simultaneously firm and gentle.
She doesn’t coddle me. Ever. She might do that for others (I doubt it). I don’t need coddling. Though I have complex post-traumatic stress disorder, an anxious attachment style, plus a couple of other mental illnesses thrown in there for good measure, unnecessary reassurance does me more harm in the long run. This doesn’t mean she isn’t encouraging or kind; she is.
Own It, Girl!
We both know my job is to learn to reassure myself. She’s not there to tell me my decisions are ok and certainly not tell me what to do. She can help me look at my options and give me suggestions as to how to make a decision. But it’s me who needs to make those decisions and take ownership of them. And when not if doubts and fears arise, I can reassure myself I made the best choices I could with the information I had. And guess what? That’s exactly what I’m learning to do. Because sometimes you need a Hard-Ass Andie in your corner.
© Victoria Maxwell
