I Needed A Therapist Because Of My Therapist (Part Three)

Part One of this story is "Depression Doesn't Discriminate" and Part Two is "The Summer From Hell". I encourage you to read those first for context.

By no means do I want to discourage people from seeking help from health professionals. My aim is not to slander those who work in medicine or therapy. There are thousands of wonderful doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, and therapists in the world. This post is merely to recount my experience with my personal doctors and therapists, during a challenging time in my life.

As I've said, my doctor was not terribly helpful in the event of my mental breakdown. His expertise lay only in the physical, and so anything brought to him that was mental or emotional was met with a lack of professionalism. My mom and I had to fight to get me anti-depressants, which no one suffering a meltdown should have to experience. I had no energy to fight for anything. I needed HIM to advocate for me and help me, but I had to prove I needed the help.

One appointment I'll never forget was when he blamed my mental state on my parents' decision to homeschool me.

I was homeschooled the entire way through. It was not because my parents were afraid of the world, or because I had difficulty learning - it was a decision based on what was best for our family. There is stigma surrounding the word "homeschooled", and it doesn't make life easier to be homeschooled. However, my parents were not hippies or anti-vaxxers or uneducated religious nuts - they didn't hide us away and shelter us. We learned all the same academic things our peers learned, but in (dare I say) a richer environment where we were allowed to pursue the subjects that inspired us. And for anyone wondering about socializing (that was always the No. 1 question I'd receive growing up in relation to my education), we had PLENTY of that.

Our doctor had an old-fashioned point of view on just about anything, and for the life of him could not understand homeschooling. He had always had an issue with it, since we started seeing him when my brother and I were really little. He always doubted my parents; my mother often found herself having to defend her decisions to him during our appointments.

Now it was his chance to say "I told you so", when I entered his clinic broken and defeated. And he didn't hold back; he was blunt. It was the cruelest thing you could have said to my parents at that time. They already felt like failures because their daughter was cracking up and they couldn't do anything to fix her. They already had their own doubts about the decisions they'd made. They already felt attacked by the world, and their go-to health professional should have been in their corner. Can you imagine being blamed for your child's cancer? That's what it must have felt like. "Your child is falling apart at 16 because of a decision you made for her at age 5." Ridiculous.

We had plenty of reasons to switch doctors, but I believe that moment was the beginning of the end of our time with him. If it were easier to acquire family doctors, we would've sought a new one much sooner. I hate how one meeting and one sentence can hurt you forever.

Then there was all the bullshit he spun about how I could cure myself. Aside from talk therapy, I needed to socialize MORE. I needed to force myself to go out and get more friends and experience more things. I needed to THINK happier thoughts! I needed to make myself smile more, and the happiness would just magically reappear. I needed to go for WALKS. Who knew walking cured depression?

Hopefully, Dear Reader, I don't have to explain to you how THINKING positively does not cure clinical depression. Hopefully you know that forcing yourself to do things that trigger your anxiety does NOT cure an anxiety disorder.

I did at least one thing he prescribed - counselling.

My family has always been Christian; I was raised Christian, and at that time we were still in a very Christian state of mind. So we went to a Christian  counselling organization. Looking back, I honestly wonder what sort of degrees they had that allowed them to perform talk therapy - especially the lady I got.

I had never experienced counseling in any capacity before. I didn't know what to expect. I also didn't trust ANY of my feelings anymore. My opinions were probably wrong; my emotions were out of control; my thoughts didn't make any sense. I didn't trust myself because my own mind had betrayed me (but that's for another post). So, even though I immediately didn't like the place or the counselor that had been chosen for me, I assumed I was in the wrong to feel that way, and I didn't speak up. More than that, I was exhausted in every conceivable way - I just wanted to give myself over to someone who claimed to be a professional and let them do the work.

I can't remember how long I was with this counselor, but it was longer than it ever should have been. Honestly, even one session was too much time spent with her. Her Christianese was well-polished, and her agenda was at the ready. She wouldn't look at me when I talked, but rather stared at her clipboard (and I mean her nose was almost touching the paper) with a frown on her face, slowly writing things down. Whenever I got a glimpse at the things she had written, I realize how disconnected she was to the things I was saying, and felt discouraged.

We talked about so many things that didn't matter and that didn't pertain to the problem at hand. I was never given any tools to use day-to-day to control my anxiety. I left feeling that my mental state was all my fault.

Homeschooling was blamed again, but mostly it was the parts of me that I was proud of that were picked apart.

You have to understand, I felt that I had lost myself. On that random day in the Spring when everything came crashing down all at once, I felt that my true self had died. I was a person who smiled all the time, who laughed easily, who had a sense of humor, who enjoyed nature, who found joy in animals, who loved God, who saw beauty everywhere, who strove to bring peace to every situation, who was content no matter the circumstance. I was articulate for my age, and people remarked on my writing skills and my ability to describe my thoughts and emotions.

She ripped into me saying my smiles weren't real, that I was out of touch with my emotions, that I was "too spiritual", that I didn't use "the right words" to describe my emotions; she made it clear my humor was not understood or appreciated, my laughter was not believed, and my daydreaming was a way to "distract" from reality.

She tore apart everything I still liked about myself. Anything I had retained from before the meltdown was now being criticized. As a 16-year-old who was already trying to understand who she was (as any teenager does), it was the worst thing she could have done as a therapist. She made me feel that I was fake; that who I thought I was didn't exist. Talk about an identity crisis.

She then said my problem - the key to why I fell apart - was self-esteem. This is ironic to me now, since she took what self-esteem I had left and tore it to shreds. She gave me "homework" (something that is especially daunting to a person suffering with depression), which consisted of cringe-worthy self-help books and useless projects, like writing a list of things I loved about myself (aka all the things she said were wrong or false).

Essentially, she dismissed the idea that I had depression or anxiety. My problem was my self-esteem. Why a lack of self-esteem would cause me to have a prolonged panic attack, I'm not sure.

I'm not saying I don't have self-esteem problems; I absolutely do. What I'm saying is that it was not the core issue, and everything she made me do during our sessions (and at home) did absolutely nothing. Only one useful thing was covered - my belief that I have to save everyone, and take on their burdens in order to help them. She basically described us all being inside our own yards guarded by white picket fences, and that we can reach to each other opposite the fence, but that we don't have to step inside the other yards. I guess the visual could be helpful, but again - I wasn't given any tools to help me practice staying in my own yard.

Eventually I decided to listen to myself and I ended my sessions with her. I was still too scared to be honest, so I basically played it off as if I'd been healed, and thanked her for her work through gritted teeth. I even hugged her. The relief I felt when I left that office for the last time is indescribable.

My next experience was with a psychiatrist, referred to me by our family doctor. I was on a waiting list for a very, very long time, and by the time I could be seen by her, I almost felt as if it wasn't necessary. I was functioning, and I was in a healthier state of mind; I had my medication. Most of all, I didn't want a repeat of my first therapist, and I didn't want to share my life story with a health professional for the third time.

However, I was convinced by the fact that I still did not have an official diagnosis. The best outcome from this psychiatrist was the fact that I was validated - I received a diagnosis of clinical depression and social anxiety disorder. My therapist was wrong - it was not "all in my head", it couldn't be cured by writing lists about what I liked about myself, and everything I'd been experiencing was NOT MY FAULT. The psychiatrist approved my anti-depressants and even upped my dosage. She explained that mental health was more than just a self-esteem problem. She explained that the chemicals in my brain were off, and that's why medication was so important.

Everything else explored with that psychiatrist was essentially useless, however. I was expected to do talk therapy with her, but I don't think that was her gift. She didn't ask the right questions, and just like my first therapist, focused on problems that were not the ultimate issue. Eventually we gave up meeting with her because it was too expensive for something that wasn't helping. I'm grateful to have received a diagnosis though.

Years passed, and my depression went through ups and downs. I have what you could call "functioning depression". I can do the basics but depression is always there, in the background. Depression is like an old friend now - I don't actually know what it would be like not to have it. Same with anxiety - but anxiety is the oldest friend I've got, and I realize I've never lived without it.

A few years ago, I hit one of the darkest parts in my depression, and found myself sitting on the bathroom floor at night stabbing myself in the upper arm with a needle. The pain inside was so bad that I needed physical pain to snap myself out of it.

I realized I was self-harming, and it scared me. I dropped the needle and started shaking, realizing what I had done. I'd been putting off therapy for months because I had yet to have a successful experience with it, but now I was desperate for it, because I was afraid of where this needle-stabbing would lead to.

I can't remember if it was the next day or the next week, but very soon after I had a meeting with a new therapist. Again, it was a Christian organization, and the sessions were held in the office of a church. While my therapist was 100% more relatable, comfortable, and likable than my first therapist, she still wasn't what I needed.

Again, I didn't trust my own feelings, and I forced myself to continue the sessions weekly for about a year. She had to help undo the damage my first therapist had done - again, irony! And she did, for which I'm grateful. She didn't make me feel stupid or crazy; she validated my feelings; she said I was very articulate and in touch with my feelings; she acknowledged the things in my life that could cause depression and anxiety and said that I had every right to feel those things.

She sounds perfect, you're thinking. Why wasn't she what you needed?

Again, she didn't ask the correct questions in order to get to the core issues. We stayed at the surface for the most part, and focused on things that ultimately were not the main problem. She had an agenda from the moment I stepped into her office, and nothing I said swayed her from that agenda. She also talked about herself equally or more than I talked about myself. She told me about her day, or referenced her other clients, or shared stories about her friends. Sometimes they pertained to what our conversation, and sometimes they didn't.

She definitely didn't GET me, but I'm used to that. I can count on one hand (and not even all the fingers) of all the people I've met who GET me. Any jokes I made went right over her head. Any references I made got me a blank stare. She also shared Biblical quotes with me that were never helpful. She also gave me homework that was draining for me to do ( getting out of bed when you're depressed is often the best you can do in a day) and that ultimately didn't help me.

Granted, I was in a much healthier place when I left her than when I started. For the record, I never self-harmed again. I also never attempted suicide, or even contemplated how I would commit suicide. That's not to say I've never been suicidal - I can't count the amount of times I've wanted to die.

We eventually got a new family doctor (who is now retiring, so we'll need to find a new one again), and he was much better than our first. He was body positive, he was understanding, he was knowledgeable, and he understood the importance of mental health.

What he didn't understand was how I couldn't do the things that most people do. Why couldn't I hold down a job or attend college or date people if I was on anti-depressants? Why couldn't I force myself to engage in social events and make more friends? Why couldn't I move out of my parents place?

Sometimes people don't understand these things but they genuinely want to learn why, so when you explain it they retain the explanation and their views change. He, however, was one of those people who didn't understand and ultimately didn't want to understand, so any explanation fell on deaf ears. Again, I'm grateful he was there to look after my physical health - but I dreaded approaching the subject of mental health with him. I always left the appointments feeling like a failure in life.

That's where I'll leave this post, because that's all the medical professionals I've experienced in regards to my mental health journey. It's also absurdly late (or absurdly early) and I'm tired.

There is so much more left to tell, so keep an eye out.