Dexter flopped onto his sofa and opened up his laptop as he leaned back, settling himself into the cushions.
He was feeling different today. A good sort of different. Something inside him knew he needed to capitalise on this sort of feeling, as it wouldn’t be long before the other one was back.
Over the last few months and years, he’d researched all sorts of different options, but it was difficult when he didn’t really know what was wrong. He’d considered going to see a therapist, but that had just caused more confusion than anything. Their websites and profiles all suggested they were the ideal people to help if you were feeling ‘worried’, ‘anxious’ or ‘depressed’, but none of these words quite seemed to fit, as far as Dexter was concerned. In any case, he wasn’t sure he was a talker. He’d never been able to open up to anyone, and he didn’t see why that would suddenly change now. Even if it did, why would a complete stranger, who was only there because they were getting paid, be the person to talk to?
He’d had friends who’d spoken openly about therapy and counselling and the good it had done them, so he could certainly see the appeal. But was it for him? He wasn’t sure. He’d picked up a couple of self-help books, but found them trite and pretty rage-inducing. The idea that he could simply change his thoughts just by wanting to, or that chanting a few well-meaning affirmations into the mirror ten times each morning would fix him was frankly ludicrous. All Dexter knew was that the darkness inside him was deep. It wasn’t something that could be medicated, talked or affirmed out of him. It would need far, far more than that. It was insidious.
He tried not to think too far along these lines as he typed another string of words into the search engine, hoping to find something new — something he hadn’t come across before — an approach that would provide the key for him to unlock himself.
Covering it up had worked, up until a point. It didn’t get rid of it, but it had at least kept it hidden. That’d had its drawbacks, of course. He’d had to keep well out of close relationships, for a start. He knew that if he ever let anyone get too close, there was no way he’d be able to hide that side of him from them. In any case, would it be right of him to want to? Surely the whole point of being with somebody was that you were meant to share those things and help each other?
Dexter had spent his life pondering these questions, and was still no closer to an answer. Some days were better than others, but he was starting to realise he only had a finite amount of energy.
He’d tried all sorts. His first port of call, years earlier, had been to visit his GP. That had been a disaster, to say the least. The doctor had put him on antidepressants, which made him feel worse than he had before. Coupled with that, he’d started to gain weight at an obscene rate, which had done little to help his mood. They’d referred him for counselling and therapy, but by the time he’d reached the top of the waiting list ten months later he wasn’t feeling too bad and was too busy with work to even think about taking them up on it. Throwing himself into his job worked well as a distraction, but that was about it.
He’d tried diet and lifestyle changes, choosing to eat more healthily and drink less alcohol, as well as joining a gym. He soon found he felt even more depressed at not being able to enjoy his favourite foods, and the gym membership became wasted as work and general life got in the way once again. Dexter estimated he must have spent hundreds, if not thousands of pounds on various self-help books and online courses designed to ‘help you uncover the real you’ and ‘heal your past trauma’, but found they’d done very little to help him.
He knew he needed professional assistance. Deep down, he accepted a therapist was probably the best option for him. Yes, he predicted they’d be useless and that he wouldn’t open up to them, but what did he have to lose? He’d have spent a couple of hundred quid, wasted a few hours of his time and been proven right. But if his predictions were wrong and the sessions actually helped…? There was no telling what the potential benefits might be.
He loaded up the now-familiar website and typed his postcode into the Location box. The website asked him if he’d prefer sessions online or in person, and he selected the latter. If he was going to struggle to open up to someone under normal circumstances, he didn’t see how it would be any easier to talk to a webcam. Having hit the Search button, a list of potential counsellors and therapists popped up — over three hundred of them within a fifteen mile radius of him. Down the left-hand-side of the website, a number of filters gave him options for narrowing down his search. He clicked the drop-down box under the heading What’s worrying you? and was stunned at the number of options. Not knowing what to select, he instead used a few of the other filters to try and make his search a little easier.
Over the course of the next half an hour or so, Dexter looked at the profiles of more than a dozen counsellors and therapists. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, or what most of the letters after their names meant. Some specialised in ‘integrative therapy’, whilst others talked about ‘Human Givens’ and ‘acceptance and commitment therapy’. He jotted a few notes down on a notepad, then searched the web to find out what some of these terms meant. All he really wanted was to click a button, then have someone diagnose him and work out what type of therapy he needed. He hadn’t expected to have to effectively triage himself.
A short while later, feeling he had a somewhat better idea as to the different types of therapy available, Dexter had narrowed his search down to three potential counsellors and therapists. If he was honest with himself, their photos had played a big part in his decision to get in touch with them. He knew it sounded weird, but he didn’t think he’d be able to talk to anyone who didn’t look ‘nice’. He knew he was going to have to be vulnerable, and he wouldn’t be able to do that if he didn’t feel comfortable with the person he was talking to.
Ten minutes later, having sent an email to each of them, Dexter closed the lid of his laptop.