Breaking up with my therapist.
Seeking help is a big step towards recovery, the anxiety and depression is at its peak; and it’s not easy opening up to a stranger.
You know you’re constantly on the clock, and that when the timer strikes — it’s time for the next appointment.
You’re kept on a short leash, so as not to run too far on your own.
Every time there seems to be a breakthrough, there’s a reminder you’re not going anywhere on your own.
After a while you forget, the 150$ therapy sessions are like paying a hooker for sex.
The drug addict that offers a helping hand, when you show signs of recovery.
Willing to throw in an extra 10-Minutes, reminding you “I’m doing THIS for you”; so as you always remember of how the therapist once so preciously blessed you with a measly 10-Minutes of their time, only to buy another year’s worth of yours.
Only to pull you back in, reminding you there isn’t much to be achieved outside the confines of this safe-haven you’ve come to believe is your only source of avoiding misery.
Sharing your goals and aspirations, as you tell your therapist how you’ve made new friends and how working out is actually boosting your morale; only to be told “We need to check your prescription, it happens — it’s just a high you’re experiencing”.
Now I’m not judging all therapists, but trust me when I say this — most of them are insane.
There is a sociopathic tendency to exploit the victims most deepest of scars — and call it an “experiment” or a “new-technique”.
As an individual with already so much baggage and trust-issues, you feel as though you’ve got nowhere to turn; this is all there is to it.
If you’re lucky, you might just figure it out in time — there’s good out there.
It’s not in this comfy couch the therapist puts you in, it’s outside in the world and unfortunately you’ve got to figure it out for yourself — through trial and error.
It’ll take time, but it’ll be worth the effort — when you finally find the one thing that becomes your therapy, the one thing you can’t live without, the one thing that keeps you alive and breathing; and it’s not medication and it’s not a psychologist.
It’s inner-strength and now you’ve found it.
The fortunate part is, now that you’ve found it — you’ve also found hope.
Hope that we’ll be okay, dear friend.
That weekends will become a chore, and the bed that we once couldn’t get out of; is now one we wish to get rid of — looking forward to the next day.
To chase the fulfilling taste of victory, of how we’ve survived and come to find strength within ourselves — trust me, it gets better.
It’ll be difficult some times, but don’t lose hope.
Trust me, it gets better —
If you wish to learn more about the therapist that nearly killed me, links down below.
Do know that there is good out there, but I hope that through my experience — you too can learn to spot the “red flags” to avoid when in your most vulnerable of moments.