18. Find a Therapist — Again and Again

Seek immediate treatment if you are still trying to make your French therapist laugh.

I took a break from therapy when I first moved to Paris. I had been with the same therapist for five years in New York, and during our last sessions, we mostly just glanced at the clock as I half-heartedly tried to come up with new things to whine about. I'm cured, I decided. I graduated therapy!

Two months into living in Paris, I realized: oh shit, I need a therapist tout de suite. Everyone I knew in New York was in therapy and proudly so. It was usually the first thing you'd find out about them, along with how much they paid monthly in rent. In Paris, it would take years before I'd find out someone was in therapy. (And very rarely do people tell me how much their rent is — despite me constantly asking.) (Is this why I don't have more French friends?)

I pushed off finding a therapist in France until the last minute. Global pandemic, new baby, crushing book deadline: just one of these things is enough to set you askew, but all three at once? Yikes. Bikes.

My ideal therapist has the following qualities:

• Doesn't suggest anything remotely woo-woo or spiritual-adjacent.

• The ratio to me talking vs. them is 65/35.

• A good memory — I don't want to have to repeat Trauma Tidbit #24601 every single time.

• Doesn't really react; mostly just asks questions.

• A sense of humor, but also, if they laugh at every one of my pathetic jokes, that's a bit much.

My mutuelle would only cover 12 sessions, so I used these appointments to begin dating different therapists. My first criteria for a French therapist: they had to speak English. Similar to me not having a sense of humor in French, I also cannot accurately convey how unwell I am in French. This narrowed down my options considerably.