How a Woman I Barely Knew Became My Lifeline

I thought it was for the weak or privileged until I met her

Photo by Christopher Campbell on Unsplash

Her name was Joy. Can you imagine? It beamed from my laptop screen like some poltergeist ready to enter me. This was the sign I needed. Without even seeing her face, I knew she was the one. Anyone had to be better than my first experience with therapy. That woman needed an overhaul of her skills, so off the mark on our first meeting, I wondered if she got her license from inside a Cornflakes box.

I can’t even remember her name. She was a psychiatrist, the top of the food chain — a chain I’d never had anything to do with previously. I ended up in her office via a friend. Brandon had been seeing her for years. It should’ve been a red flag from the start. He had so many issues, I wondered why he kept going back. It clearly wasn’t working.

He had more money than sense, I thought. In hindsight, she’d probably attributed to his fuckedupness. Such is the power of psychiatry when it’s in the wrong hands, dealing with the broken and vulnerable. To those devoted worshippers, their therapist holds the power of the Gods.

The relationship between the therapist and patient is a key component of successful treatment. Therefore, it’s critical to find a therapist with whom you feel comfortable and secure — and to realise when something feels off. ~Psychology Today.

My memory of what I said in that first session with Dr “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” is vague, but I’ll never forget what she said in response when I paused for breath about twenty minutes in.

“Your father sexually abused you, and you have repressed it. You’ve blocked it from your memory, which is why you have no recollection.”

Umm. What the fuck.

Something off? North Korea has fewer red flags.

That is your profound analysis, your professional opinion? I would’ve loved to see the look on my face at that moment.

My father was many things: a tyrant, an oppressor, a killer of dreams, a rageful psychopath at times, but a sexual abuser was not in his realm of possibility. Not even a remote chance.

I wish I had repressed the shit that had happened in my life — that gift is for others. I wish I could blame it all on my father — and he needed to be blamed for so much — but he wasn’t the one who sexually abused me. Not that I told ‘Dr Cuckoo’ about being ganged raped on the cusp of my fifteenth birthday.

She was my first introduction to therapy. I had trouble talking about my divorce, which is why I was there. As if I were going to revisit my childhood with someone I’d just met, therapist or not. That was a secret I’d been keeping for decades. It was locked firmly away. It would take more than a bold statement to topple me.

I was in two minds about therapists to begin with, and then I ended up with her. Talk about bad luck. I had more respect for someone reading my tea leaves. I assumed therapy was for people with too much money and no friends.

“Brandon, I love you. But let me tell you something for free. Your psychiatrist is a demented lunatic, borderline criminal who needs to be assessed for her mental health. Save your money. Join a trekking adventure group. The outdoors and good friends will do more for your self-esteem than any stupid therapy.”

I know. Dr Marce is in the house. Diplomacy wasn’t my strong point back then, nor was keeping my opinions to myself. It was 2007. Therapy wasn’t quite the household name it is today. Therapists were reserved for Hollywood celebrities and other needy Americans.

This was Australia. We are sturdy stock. If you couldn’t sort your own shit out, you were a failure. That’s how the Aussie psyche was conditioned. It takes more than one therapy session to annihilate that kind of stigma. It takes a village in some other land, not Australia, to support the weakest link in the tribe. The village is your therapy. Without it, you’re on your own.

Joy to the world…

It took me six months to feel brave enough to try again. And after driving to a famous suicide spot to end my life, I imagined I needed saving. Things were grim. It doesn’t get darker than that. My dead brother’s voice pulled me back from the brink, but that’s a whole other story.

I needed help beyond my ‘circle of friends’ capabilities, who did their best to talk me off the ledge — metaphorically speaking. I didn’t tell them where I’d driven or what I intended to do.

It was time to pull my head out of my arse, get over my witchcraft theories and step into the 21st century. My sixteen-year-old daughter aspired to become a counsellor — the more common term we Aussies use rather than therapist. I had to move with the times and support her choices; I always had. I just didn’t understand much about her chosen career.

At first sight, meeting Joy felt like a warm hug had wrapped itself around me. If it were allowed, I probably would’ve hugged her by the end of that initial meeting. Warmth radiated from her like a visible aura. I wanted to take her home and bake cookies, drink cups of tea and whittle the hours away chit-chatting.

She wasn’t old enough to be my mother, but there was something motherly about her. There was an instant connection — a vibe, a gut feeling. Or perhaps it was just hope — hope that this kind woman named Joy, with the smiling eyes and gentle voice, could help me make sense of my shattered life.

So, this is what an actual therapist feels like. I made a pact with myself then: I would be open and vulnerable, allow Joy to do her job, and soak up the wisdom. It was the turning point I desperately needed.

Finding our groove face-to-face

Joy explained her processes. One of the therapies she used was Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which can be effective for a range of problems, including marital problems.

I hung on her every word. But then she spoke of using objects as therapy, often called play therapy, art therapy, or expressive arts therapy.

“Okay, Joy, I’m going to stop you right there. If you think I’m going to hold a sunflower and think happy thoughts, you have me pegged all wrong. I don’t play, and I don’t do art. Not arty. Not happening.”

She erupted in laughter. I didn’t think I was being funny; I was merely stating a fact. I was stunned for a minute. And then I laughed. I hadn’t laughed for the longest time. My face felt weird.

It took her a few minutes to compose herself.

“Marce. You’re funny. Thank you for clearing that up. Now I know how to conduct our sessions. I promise, no sunflowers, just talking.”

She called me Marce, but only my friends called me Marce. I didn’t tell her that’s how family and friends address me. Another sign. I was taken aback at this warm, comforting gesture, as if she already knew me.

Her smile reached her eyes, and I relaxed. Flower disaster averted. What kind of voodoo therapy involves objects? Don’t people feel ridiculous doing that? If she had forced me into it, I probably would’ve walked out the door and never looked back.

And as it turned out, I couldn’t imagine my life without our weekly sessions in those first eighteen months after the end of my marriage. She became a beacon, a sage, guiding me through the dark, back into the light, where a world of colour awaited.

Final Things

Joy brought me back to life. She instilled in me a sense of self-worth, something I’d lost along the way. I’m not sure I’d ever felt worthy in my life. I had so many layers of denial, it was like a weighted blanket I couldn’t budge, suffocating under all that material.

She knew I was struggling financially after my ex-husband had gambled our life away, and so she offered her sessions at discounted rates. That was a lifeline. I wouldn’t have been able to afford it otherwise.

Back then, there were no mental health plans. Nowadays, a compassionate GP fills out some forms, and you get your first ten sessions for free. That would’ve helped.

Thanks to Joy, my mindset had been transformed. Never again did I judge or offer opinions I knew little about. Joy explained therapy in all its forms, smashing the stigmas that had plagued me for decades. She opened my mind to the possibilities of healing.

Finally, for the first time, I could speak the unspeakable traumas of my childhood. I’d never even considered the word trauma before I’d met Joy, let alone the implications of what it meant in my life.

My Pandora’s box of secrets was pried open, gently at first, then with the force of a crowbar. It was loud and brutal, and once out, there was no putting that box back together. That was it, out in the open. This is who I am.

“Marce, you are not defined by what happened to you. You are who you are, despite all that. You are strong and capable. What you do with your life now is what matters…”

I know. I know. Similar words were made famous by others. But it was the first time I’d heard anything like that, and it profoundly affected me. It has always stayed with me. And so has the image of a Bird of Paradise flower.

“Indulge me, Marce. Just this once. Think of a flower that would represent you. If you were a flower, what would you be?”

“Joy, we’ve talked about this. Flowers. No.”

We laughed. I’d never been a devoted flower person. I liked flowers, but I liked chocolate more. And the strangest thing happened. The Bird of Paradise flower popped into my head, just like that. And I blurted it out.

“Of all the flowers you could’ve chosen, a rose, a lily, an orchid, you chose the most exotic flower of all. With its strong stem, it stands alone. It doesn’t need any propping up or filler flowers to be noticed. It is strikingly confident. There’s nothing quite like it. Do you see the similarity? You are a Bird of Paradise”

How. Did. She. Do. That.

I saw it then, not that I was a flower, but what she was trying to instil in me.

I sobbed like a baby. Idiot.

Photo by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto on Pexels

And like all good things, our time together came to an organic end. I felt cured. Of course, we’re never really cured. Shit happens. Life presents challenges, but they don’t have to cripple us. Joy gave me the tools I’d need if I ever felt like taking that drive again. I wouldn’t.

Six years later, I would call Joy again. I was living on the opposite side of the country with my second husband, Ramzi. His ex-wife was playing havoc with my life, on a mission to destroy our marriage and annihilate me for reasons I’ll never understand. I had no tools in my arsenal for that.

But that’s a whole other story…

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Thanks for reading, friends. I wish you all good mental health. And if you feel you’d benefit from talking to someone outside your circle of friends, I hope you find your joy.

Thanks to

Diana C.

and

May More

for supporting my stories.

A version of this story was first published on Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

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