2019-09-01 Cosmopolitan South Africa

Opening up
I had my first cognitive behavioural
therapy (CBT) session on a misty
afternoon in October last year.
I didn’t know much about CBT other
than my GP said it would ‘help’
what he diagnosed as ‘severe
generalised anxiety disorder and
moderate depression’. A course
of eight hour-long sessions with a
psychological wellbeing practitioner
(mental-health professionals trained
to administer CBT) was the place to
start, he had said.
My first CBT practitioner was
called Annie*. She had the soft
sotto-voce tones of a primary-
school teacher with the menacing
stance of a caged pit bull. She
placed a box of tissues beside me
and instructed me to simply talk
(so that she could identify what
we would work on in that session).
I used almost every one of those
tissues over the following months as
my thoughts came slithering out of
my mouth to bask in the daylight:
my irrational fear of death, the
constant social and career pressure
I felt, the paranoia and self-hatred,
the dogged, unyielding lowness,
and as ever, the emptiness that
hunched over my life like a vulture.
Midway through every session,
I would ask the same thing: am
I crazy? To which she would simply
shake her head and say no. And
yet crazy is how I felt as CBT’s
effects wore off. An eight-week
course kept the demons off my
back for only a few months before
another referral, and then another.
I did all the worksheets, all the
dysfunctional-thought records my
therapists instructed me to and all
the exposure therapy. I read the
books and did all the behavioural
experiments they suggested ... and
it worked ... for a while. I’ve heard
people call CBT ‘life-changing’,
while for others, it’s like being
caught with your emotional pants

down in front of a total stranger.

For me, it was both: miraculous, in

that each time my therapist guided

me out of my claustrophobic chasm

and back to a life I could feel

excited about. Whatever stage my

depression was at, and whatever

form it took, CBT never failed me.

Andyet,nomatterhowelated

I feltat theendof eachcourse,

I always,alwaysfoundmyselfback

sittingin somedrearywaitingroom

gnawingonmyfingernails,feeling

familiarlylow,desperateand

terriblyexposed.

What’smore,tryingto manage

mymentalmerry-go-roundwas

exhausting.I wouldcompulsively

trackmyGAD-7andPHQ-9scores

(theUKnationallyuseddepression

andanxietyscales).WhenI

hada lowscore(meaningI was

improving),I foundthatin orderto

maintainthatlevelof ‘contentment’,

hugeamountsof mytimeand

attentionwereneededto simply

staythere.Prettysoonmythought

process became a feedback

loop of ‘Can I go for a drink with

friends? No, you must go home

and do 15 minutes of worry time.

But what if seeing my friends might

make me feel happy? No, you’re

on a path... You have to keep

working at it or you’ll lose it.’ It

waslikea mental-healthmatrix–

mymindanever-revolvingdoor

of mentaleaseandunease.And

thebiggestironyof all:I was

increasinglyanxiousaboutthe

managementof myanxiety,and

thehopelessnesscausedbythe

oscillatingstateof thatanxiety

mademedepressed.

Crunchtime

I was 23 yearsoldwhenI first

startedthinkingaboutmedication.

Upuntilthen,I hadalways

thoughtthatto bemedicated

wasto admitdefeat,to succumb

to weakness.WhenI thought

aboutthemedication,I thought

abouthousewivesquietlyslipping

50

COSMOPOLITAN.CO.ZA | SEPTEMBER 2019

PHOTOGRAPHY

ANTONIO PETRONZIO

*NAME HAS BEEN CHANGED