What REBT Taught Me About My Own Bullsh*t

The First Time Therapy Helped

I started therapy at 18. I went to my university’s counseling center after experiencing something traumatic. 

I was resistant at first, but I didn’t know what else to do. The resources were handed to me, and I took a leap of faith.

I saw Dr. E for all four years. She was an angel. She was kind. She held space for me. Let me cry. Allowed me to process. And she never made me feel less than. 

I joined a support group consisting of women who had been through similar experiences. This group was a godsend. To be supported by people who understood the complexities of my trauma offered me a sense of relief. I could unmask in front of them. Stop pretending I was fine and talk about what happened.

After I graduated, I felt lost without that support. 

The Breakdown Years

Three months post-graduation, life hit me hard – again. And I was right back in the spiral. Numbing. Escaping. Hoping, wishing, wanting the sweet relief of escape. 

I poured through numerous therapists, but none stuck. I hadn’t found the right fit. I’d go to each appointment with the hopes that they’d fix me. Instead, I’d talk at them, dump my trauma on them, cry, complain, and repeat the same cycles over and over again.

Cher, Crisis, & Dr. M

Fast forward to Christmas 2024, and my life changed forever. My dog, Cher, cut her achilles, we went through the necessary next steps to heal her, and ultimately decided to amputate her right hind leg. 

I was living with my best friend in DC. My days were a blur of vet calls, deadlines, frozen pizzas, and emotional whiplash. To say I was overwhelmed is an understatement. My intuition was nudging me to get back into therapy well before Cher’s accident, and the time finally came.

I remember sitting on my couch that cold January afternoon – snow falling outside, Cher sleeping at my feet – and finally opening my laptop to find help. I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to meet the therapist who would change everything.

I logged onto the virtual portal to interview my first therapist prospect and was met with Dr. M. She pitched me her spiel on Rational Emotive Behavioral Therapy (REBT), and I was sold. I thought I wanted to try out EMDR – it was different, proven to help clients with CPTSD – but I rolled the dice and showed up for my next REBT appointment.

Dr. M sent me this book, “Go Suck a Lemon,” and I had to do homework. We met weekly at the start. It was like therapy bootcamp. I never knew what to expect when I’d log on for my appointments. Sometimes Dr. M would be very gentle and understanding; other times, she’d kick my a*s (in a supportive, tough love, I “needed” to hear it type of way). 

Throughout the onboarding/intro process, I had to name my amygdala and start talking to her. Out loud and inside my head. 

Anytime my anxiety would flare, I’d say:

“Georgette, calm down. Go sit in your corner, twiddle your thumbs, eat your grapes, I don’t care – but leave me alone.”

That’s REBT, baby.

I was tasked with noticing my “stinkin’ thinkin’.” Anytime I caught myself thinking or saying the words should, must, have to, ought to, need, I’d simply notice and train my brain to change the word. 

I’m still learning. Still rewiring. Still reminding Georgette to relax. I’ve finally found tools that work – and a therapist who won’t let me bullsh*t my way out of my own healing.

Healing…It’s not linear, but Georgette’s finally listening, and I’ve stopped letting her drive.

XOXO Lucy

Next up: the “inbetween” – the messy, magical middle of showing up for yourself.

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