How Spirituality Beat Talking Therapy in Overcoming my Incessant Anxiety Disorder
The endless side-eyeing my therapist to non-verbally assess my responses was tiring. Week after week, I felt the need to satisfy, like I owed it to my long-suffering (but handsomely paid) psychotherapist to validate her efforts.
Of course, that’s not what talking therapy is about. Far from it. But I lacked the confidence to tell her that I was still feeling low after 50 impeccably timed minutes. Deflated. Hopeless. She’d tell me that was normal, which it was, but intuition told me there was a void.
In fact, many people said it was normal. But having worked my way through every form of talking therapy, I started to notice a pattern.
Therapy felt like a game of cat and mouse. I berated myself for knowing what strategies the therapist was applying. I kicked myself each time I played the self-solution-solving game. My ego was really starting to irritate me. I was the issue, not the therapist—the multiple therapists, I should say.
I felt useless. Everyone could make therapy work once they found ‘the one’—the guru who resonated and seemed to get them. Except me. And I’d tried a lot.
I decided to quit talking therapy.
A year later, perimenopause saw to it that the anxiety demon reared its ugly head once more. This time, it had fangs and horns. Each of my coping mechanisms had all but dissipated. I needed help. Fast.
The mental health narrative had rapidly evolved. People were talking openly about their battles, and therapy had become a daily event for millions. Celebrities and royalty shared their personal stories and validated their frequent therapy sessions.
I felt I had to join the masses and make it work. Once again, I opted for psychotherapy. She was a beautiful soul of a woman who tried her utmost. We clicked instantly, and I felt positive I’d found the elusive one.
Still, that niggling feeling of second-guessing her prompts, the endless gazing, the people-pleasing and moving in endless circles persisted. I felt deflated daily, but I assumed it was part of the purging process. I tried hard but managed six sessions before officially quitting talking therapy.
The next phase happened quite organically.
I joined a meditation group and found myself immersed in delightful and uplifting talk with like-minded people, which was instantly satisfying to my soul. I’d never managed meditation before; with every attempt, I’d become overly consumed with busy thoughts about my dogs or grocery shopping. Did I turn the oven off? But after a couple of months of daily practice, I started to quieten my mind. It was working.
Over time, each of us opened up about our inner battles and were met with a narrative that urged us to learn the art of acceptance. Such simple yet wise words from a meditation guru.
I attended reiki sessions, learning to balance my chakra system and channel affirmations. My husband joined me as he awaited a life-saving kidney transplant. To this day, I believe these practices protected us from self-sabotage and devastating fear.
In time, we began receiving shamanic healing from a tremendously gifted practitioner. These lengthy sessions let us purge our unhealed wounds without requiring lengthy conversations. Shamanic healing isn’t for the faint-hearted, but we embraced it to the core. I sobbed for reasons unbeknownst to myself. I even purged on occasion. It was hardcore, emotional torment. But each time, I felt a weight had lifted. The anxiety beast seemed to remain at arm’s length, and it was heavenly.
Before long, I was attending womb healing classes, a practice that my ego would once have rejected. Instead, I was guided by my higher self, a repeated phenomenon that was quite extraordinary as my finger hit the ‘book’ button without my understanding.
Even more crying. Even less anxiety.
So dumbfounded was I by my progress, my newfound love of life, and my feelings of contentment and inner peace that I started taking courses linked to spirituality. My husband and I attended alcohol-free (a new experience altogether!) spiritual festivals, immersed ourselves in kirtan and sound healing, and soaked up the wisdom of Buddhist gurus.
And now, as I write, I feel a world away from the anxiety I was once consumed by. I’ve learnt to observe my emotions rather than immerse myself in them. I feel happier, kinder, and less self-absorbed than a mere few months ago. I’ve become considerably aware of my wounds and triggers but have learned to witness them rather than accommodate them.
I can only regard this shift as a spiritual awakening.
My experience has taught me this: We all have our wounds and must find our own way of healing. For some, this is talking therapy, but me? I’ve found another way.
I’ve achieved greater well-being in the past twelve months than in the last twenty years. I’ve attracted more opportunities, my relationships have changed and improved, and I’m the happiest, freest version of myself. And no, don’t be fooled into thinking that it was easy, I’ve cried oceans and had painfully low points, but reaching rock bottom is the only way up.
That isn’t everyone’s way, but it has worked for me. I have friends who rave about their talking therapists and swear by their methods. That’s great. I simply didn’t vibe with the endless hours spent drudging up my past, and that’s okay, too.
Don’t worry if everyone else’s way isn’t working for you. Find your own, and the rest will fall into place.
I’m now training to be a healing practitioner. I want others to experience the wonderful transformation that my husband and I have encountered.
My entire life has shifted to a better place, and I look back at my old self from a mere year ago and baulk at my progress. I want to hug that angry, irritable, and frustrated woman to tell her she’s okay now. That this was worth waiting for.
And that’s the best we can hope for in life.