At the beginning of the year I wrote about going into therapy. I'd always been a sceptic, dismissing the so-called 'talking cure' as an extravagant con for the weak and the self-obsessed (oh, and celebrities) who had too much time and money on their hands and nothing more serious to whine about than the terrible hardship of having too many choices. Or the continuing struggle to win the love and approval of a distant or absent parent. Or problems with 'commitment', or some other emotional nonsense.

That's life, I thought. It's too short to waste time dwelling on ancient history. Get on with it, I thought. Do some exercise. Read a good book. Immerse yourself in a worthwhile project. Talk to your friends or family. Listen to Abba. Set yourself some realistic goals. Even pop some pills, but don't confess all to a stranger. That was what I thought.

But just over a year ago I changed. I hadn't gone completely round the bend but I was possibly on the way. I was on the verge of quitting this job as Scotland Editor of The Observer and running away to Egypt to live with a lovely wealthy man who wanted to 'take care of me forever'. Since I wasn't 100 per cent sure that I wanted to be taken care of forever, I reluctantly turned him down and instead contemplated moving to the Middle East to try my hand as a foreign correspondent in a war zone. When it dawned on me that I was simply far too scared and ill equipped to do this, I pondered the possibility of going back to teaching, even though I hated being a teacher. In short, I was having yet another little career crisis.

At the same time, my personal life was more shambolic than ever. My lovely ex, Tom, had finally given up on me and was very happy in a new relationship. He had wanted us to settle down and have children. Which was exactly what I thought I wanted until it was there on a plate for me. When it was, I bolted.

While his new relationship was blossoming, I became involved in something far trickier. Yes, this new man was unavailable. I had always said I would never do such a thing. I kept telling myself that it was a very casual, meaningless encounter. Until it ended. When it did, I started behaving like some betrayed wife in a novel, declaring my undying love. I knew my reaction was inappropriate, disproportionate and completely misdirected.

I needed to do something about me. Having observed the transformation of a good friend in therapy, from a highly strung, defensive and neurotic woman into someone more content and at peace with herself, I decided it was worth a go. Three times a week for an unlimited time and a recommended minimum of one year. I borrowed thousands of pounds, put my reservations and guilt to one side and embarked on the strangest journey of my life.

New year is the time when many people think about how they can improve their lives. Many make resolutions to give up alcohol, cigarettes or slothful living. But an increasing number are going into therapy. According to Phillip Hodson, a fellow of the British Association of Counselling and Psychotherapy, new year is their busiest time of year for inquiries.

Therapy seems both to fascinate and repel us. When I first wrote about it for The Observer in the first week of January, there was an overwhelming response. The subject of therapy as cure or con was discussed on a daytime TV show and I was asked to write a weekly column about it in the women's magazine Grazia. I received messages from people endorsing my original prejudice. 'Don't get sucked into this dangerously seductive world,' someone wrote in an email. 'It will wreak serious emotional damage on you and possibly your entire family.'

Another woman told me therapy had destroyed her marriage, while someone else warned me about becoming addicted to it. One former colleague couldn't hide her disapproval. She reacted as if I had joined a cult. In my defence I paraphrased the Scottish psychiatrist RD Laing, who said that, while we all like to think we know who we are, many of us are in fact strangers to our true selves.

This was my rationale for going into therapy. I wasn't looking for some miracle cure. Nor was I expecting perfect happiness. I simply wanted to get to know myself a bit better - and in particular why I behaved the way I did in relationships. My former colleague looked at me as if I was truly bonkers.

Others thought it was brave. One friend said he thought everyone could benefit from a bit of therapy, but added: 'I'm afraid of what I might find. Delusion and blissful ignorance can get you through anything.' Mostly, though, people seemed to be intrigued about what goes on in the consulting room. Does the therapist give you advice? Are there long, awkward silences? Isn't three times a week too much? What exactly do you hope to achieve? Why write about it?

I was pondering all of these questions as I stood nervously outside a Victorian townhouse in Glasgow at 7.35 on that first cold Tuesday morning at the beginning of January. While I waited, I thought about my 94-year-old grandmother who raised nine children in a cramped Glasgow tenement while her husband fought a war and worked in the Clyde dockyards. And I thought about my mum who, at my age, was working night shifts as a nurse while she brought up two daughters and coped with a husband who often worked away from home. I also thought about many of the people I'd interviewed who had suffered unimaginable losses, but who'd discovered incredible inner strength.

By comparison my 'problems' felt embarrassingly trivial. I feared commitment, rejection, inadequacy, loneliness. I worried about being in a relationship - and I fretted when there was no one special. I was anxious about the thought of having children, and even more freaked out by the thought of not having any. And for this I was turning to therapy. I felt like the kind of pusillanimous person I used to gladly rip into.

The first thing that struck me about Dr H, my therapist, is how unfriendly she seemed. Now, of course, I realise this says much more about me that it does about her. I'd half expected her to hug me and say everything was going to be OK. Instead she sat in silence with an unreadable expression on her face. I asked her what I should do or say. She frowned and wondered why I needed her permission or guidance to do or say anything. I thought she was mad and I considered walking out. But eventually I spilled out my 'troubles'.

As well as all the personal stuff, I told her about all the different jobs I'd had. All the places I'd been as a journalist and a couple of little awards I'd won. Clearly I wanted her to think I was amazing, but she looked unimpressed.

Then I told her about my first boyfriend, a singer-songwriter in a band, who left me broken-hearted after eight blissful years together. He used to write songs about me, I boasted. I could bring in a CD and show her, if she wanted. There's a little picture of me on the inside. Again, she looked unimpressed. To my surprise, she focused on my description - particularly the use of the word blissful - of our relationship. It was, I insisted. That perfect, pure and innocent, never-to-be-repeated first love. But she was determined to shatter my rose-tinted illusion. She pointed out that I had a tendency to embrace intimacy as an idea - I've daydreamed about living happily ever after with various love interests - but run a mile from it in reality.

And then there was Lewis, my adorable nephew. You see, as I spoke there was also the slightly disturbing realisation that I was, that I am, insanely jealous of King Lewis, as he is affectionately called. Therapy is all about learning to take responsibility for your own life. But sometimes it's good to blame others, and it is undoubtedly two-and-a-half-year-old Lewis's fault that I ended up on the couch. I didn't realise it when he was born. I was crying tears of joy. Nor was I aware of it when I first entered therapy. It was only when I started telling Dr H how much I love this amazing little miracle and how happy I am to see how Lewis has transformed my parents - they go dancing three times a week; they hold hands in public; they probably even... God, no, that's too disturbing to contemplate. But she found a weak spot and started drilling.

Naturally, I resisted at first. I insisted it was truly wonderful to see my parents so proud. But she got to the truth. I used to be the baby of the family and, even worse, I was always the maternal one, not that sister of mine. So not only did I discover that I am jealous of him, but I also envy my sister for making my parents happier than they have ever been. In other words, happier than I have ever made them. The most surprising thing was that I honestly thought, until I entered therapy, that my family had escaped the scourge of sibling rivalry.

On another occasion we were discussing what I'm like at work. I told her that, like most journalists, I was driven by deep-rooted insecurity and a fear of making a mistake. She asked whether awards and other people's opinions of me were important. 'Nope,' I barked, a little too quickly. We sat in silence while I pondered her question. Do I need external validation to feel good about myself? Of course not.

But I was being plagued by an unpleasant memory. Of all the embarrassing things I've done over the years, nothing is as cringe-inducing as the time I phoned the chairman of the press awards to ask, in tears, why I wasn't on the shortlist. He was, understandably, flabbergasted, but politely explained that the standard was exceptionally high. I practically broke down from the feeling of not being good enough. Hmm.

So, in short, this time last year I thought I was a strong, independent, self-sufficient woman with a few minor relationship issues.

For a year it went on with Dr H. Me talking, Dr H making a few well-judged comments and asking questions that would at first appear to be based on a wholly wrong premise and then, later, turn out to be right. And in the end you come to some conclusion. It's not a cure, it's just a better understanding. Thanks to Dr H, I realise I must have been slightly delusional. I've learnt that I am a flawed human being. I'm jealous of a toddler, fiercely competitive and insecure. I'm a people-pleasing attention-seeker who strives for perfection and external validation. I'm weighed down by a reservoir of suppressed anger and an inferiority (or was it superiority?) complex. And I'm not particularly good at forming mature relationships with the male of the species.

But is knowing your true self, flaws and all, better than not knowing? Well, I have been feeling much lighter, more content and at peace with myself. I also have a better, more honest and mature relationship with my family, friends and colleagues. But then someone pointed out to me the common self-deception that to recognise a problem is to solve it. I think, perhaps, I might need a little more time on the couch. Or perhaps I just have a new flaw: an addiction to therapy.

Read on

· The UK Council for Psychotherapy promotes the art and science of psychotherapy for the public benefit

· The British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy is the largest and broadest body within the sector in the UK. Also includes a register and guide to finding the right therapy

· The British Association for Behavioural and Cognitive Psychotherapies has more than 5,000 members. Also includes a database of accredited therapists who do private work