Tag Archives: stress

It would have been nice to end on a multiple of 5

I’ve seen more therapists than I have years that I’ve been alive. I started therapy when I was 14.

How am I? Oh well I’m emotionally dysregulated. How are you?

I’ve gone and fired therapist number 25 before I even had a chance to write an entry in here about the start of therapy with him. I met with him for 2 and 1/2 months or so.

Only a handful of sessions in I started to feel really attached to him. It terrified me, because that doesn’t usually happen and was and felt way out of proportion to how little he knew me.

That idealization was crushed shortly after. Because I felt over-attached, I rushed into some tough topics.

I think an important role of a therapist is to keep an eye on the patients level of affect and ensure that it is neither too low or too high. The optimal rage is different for everyone every day. Too low and the therapy is too superficial, but too high and it will be too overwhelming to be therapeutic. The optimal level varies based on how much time remains in the session. As the session nears its end the therapist needs to find the way to bring the affect to a level the patient can manage outside of the container of the therapeutic relationship.

I realize this can often be a difficult task, but he did about as poorly with this as possible. The session ended abruptly, leaving me in a vulnerable emotional state. This left me feeling wary about the therapy, realizing that he and I were very out of sync. I picture this session as a chart where x is time and y is affect. We both started at low affect and his line was straight across with no slope, while mine got higher and higher.

We did talk about this after, but I think he took the wrong message from it. I wanted him to be more aware of when things were escalating too far, while he took this to mean he shouldn’t press certain topics at all.

A couple of weeks ago I wasn’t feeling great. I won’t get into the reasons right now, because retrospectively I’m embarrassed about how trivial they were.
I cut in the bathroom of his building before my appointment. I felt extremely out of control. I bled through my pants leg. I spent the session with my purse held over the blood spot so he wouldn’t see.
Obviously he can’t read my mind (Although once a therapist accused me of wanting him to do that, probably with some justification) but I really resented him for not noticing something. I always keep my purse on the floor rather than holding it. Clearly I wasn’t meeting with Sherlock Holmes for therapy.
He was so focused on convincing me that I shouldn’t feel how I felt, that he didn’t get around to understanding how I felt.
He asked me if I was going to be okay over the weekend and I very unconvincingly said ‘Yes’. He didn’t question it.

That weekend I was not feeling well. I had some oxycodone left over from a medical problem I had over the summer (This is a topic for another post) I took that, some klonopin and some seroquel too.
Unfortunately I only slept for 13 hours as opposed to forever.

This is the first time I’ve ever misused prescription medications like this. I felt incredibly guilty about it. I’ve always only used over the counter medications for overdoses. I feel like doing this is betraying a level of trust between me and the perscribing doctor.

I rationalized this somewhat by not going over the daily limit for the klonopin, and only doing so with the oxycodone, because I care more about the trust between me and my psychiatrist than me and random doctor from the hospital who will never know about this.

With a lot of reluctance, I told therapist number 25 about this, but it took me two sessions to fully get out. At the time when I told him about this I wasn’t feeling suicidal any more. I came early though to that session to plan out my escape routes in case he tried to hospitalize me and I needed to bolt. I tossed a hat and sunglasses and change of clothing in my bag as well.

I brought up the idea during that session that my period may be relevant to some of my more serious mood problems. I’ve brought this up before with therapists. I never really can feel sure. Is it confirmation bias? I don’t have a good way to keep track of if my mood changes around my period. I don’t buy into those mood monthly calendars. All self report measures of mood are highly subjective and because I wouldn’t be blinded to when I have my period I question their validity.

I mentioned feeling conflicted about this due to my identity as a feminist. I don’t really have a fleshed out coherent argument about my feelings with this, just an uncomfortable feeling. Somehow I think that if I say the words feminism and menstruation enough my feelings will be clear to everyone.
The feelings have something to do with the society wanting to view women as overemotional on their periods, the medicalization of a normal process and the validity of PMDD as a diagnosis, but again I’m not good at expressing myself here. I can see both sides of an argument about PMDD.
He seemed confused about why feminism would be relevant to a discussion of PMDD. I can handle disagreement, especially since both sides of the argument are dueling it out in my brain. But I was shocked that he wouldn’t even be aware of the possible relevance of feminism to an issue involving menstruation. He seemed very perplexed and I was horrified.

He did apologize the following session without prompting, but still it was unsettling.

Then to make things even more exciting and wonderful (note the sarcasm) The therapist who kicked me out of school (I need a shorter way to refer to him) was on a major news network promoting his book.
Every bit of publicity feels like he is taunting me.

I sent him 3 angry tweets from my twitter account. This twitter account is public and associated with my real identity (not my real name, but the username I mostly use an also people I know in real like follow me there). Probably not my most brilliant idea ever, but I’m leaving them up. If any person searches for his @replies they will know that at least one person out there is very unhappy with him. They’re vague enough that if a person didn’t know the background they would know I was angry with him, but the reasons would be unclear.
This means he now has access to most of my social networking pages. That’s fine though as I put my best foot forward on those, unlike in this blog.

When I went to therapy to talk about this I was very let down. Awhile ago I made a comment about how klonopin makes me stupid, which it does. The stupidity occurs in varying degrees, but to have any relief from anxiety thoughts rushing around, some of the good smart thoughts are slowed down as well. Sometimes thoughts can even be of both types.
I commented on how I had to stop what I’d been working on (Probably for the better as is it was slightly destructive) when the klonopin kicked in, because I wasn’t able to think well enough. He decided to take this time to argue with me about wither I am on the correct dosage. I have had the dosage fiddled with to the point of adjusting it by increments of 1/4 of the smallest pill size. This is the right dose. I’ve been taking it at this dose for a couple of years. I’m not messing with it. He was convinced that there is some ideal dose where I won’t be anxious or stupid. I don’t believe this is possible, because the two are so intertwined and the impact of the same klonopin dose varies depending on the day.
The comments felt accusatory too. Like he thought I was abusing it, although I have never ever gone over my prescribed limit. In the context of previously telling him about my oxycodone and klonopin adventures I was very sensitive to this sort of comment, because I feel so guilty about it.

He was taking a super ego guilt inducing role. My super ego is super at making me feel guilty already thankyouverymuch.

I told him about something I had thought of doing, but did not do and he took his guilt induction much too far. I can’t write about the details here, but basically he took a thought of mine and turned it into a worst case scenario. I tried to protest, but he kept making it worse and worse. The things he was saying were already fears in my head. I didn’t need him to give them credibility.
I have far worse thoughts in my head that I haven’t told anyone. If he reacts with such a judgmental extreme to something less horrible then there’s no way he can handle the worst of me.

I felt like he was treating me like he thought I was a sociopath. He was playing this role of a conscious for me as if I had none.
If he had even a basic personality conceptualization of me he was working from to base his comments he’d have realized that I am already very skilled at guilt.

I stopped talking. I stared out the window for a bit.
Then, I pulled out my Nintendo DS and resumed the game I’d been playing in the waiting room. Really juvenile, but I don’t care.
My brother called while I was ignoring the therapist. I refused the call, but then he called again and I took it, upping my rudeness level by +10. He just had a quick answer to a question I’d had about the game I was playing.

After about 20 minutes of ignoring the therapist although with the occasional yes or no answer to a question I said “I think I should just leave”. And I did. He asked if I wanted to make another appointment and I said “No”.
There wasn’t anything he could say at the point that could have made me comfortable continuing therapy with him.
I hate myself already, I don’t need a therapist thinking I am awful as well.

I rushed out of the building, worried that I was going to be followed or stopped by security. Psychiatry departments are never placed near an easy exit and I think we all know this is not an accident.

I arrived home and decided to take some ibuprofen. I think the reason I am still alive after all these years is that I am awful at swallowing pills. If I were better at I’d have succeed years ago. I had liquid gel filled capsule type ibuprofen. I decided that if I dumped the liquid out and drank it that might work.
Turns out this is the worst idea ever. I tried opening one up, but it didn’t work well, so I decided to just put it in my mouth and bite it. It was extremely acidic. I ran to the sink to rinse my mouth out to stop the pain. My mouth and throat felt sore after, like I’d been vomiting.
With that method ruined, I gave up to the time being.

It’s a few days later and I’m okayish now. I’m not being very productive with school work. I’ve mostly been sleeping and eating ice cream. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the lack of a therapist situation. I hate starting over again and again.

Partial Hospitalization #1

A partial hospital program is sometimes also called a day program. You spend the day at the hospital, but then go home to sleep.

My first partial hospital program was right after my first hospitalization. I lasted two days there.
This is the program that I mentioned in my post about how they sent me someone else’s records.

The social worker in my hospitalization set up the intake at the partial hospital program for me.
I told her two requirements I had for it:
1. It needed to be an adolescent program
2. I did not want to do DBT

When the social worker informed me it was set up, she told me my requirements had been met.

When I arrived on the first day, I quickly learned neither request had been fulfilled.

I realize now that avoiding DBT in this type of program is likely an impossibility, but I’d have appreciated her being upfront with me about this. To be fair she probably didn’t know the program contained DBT. But the reason for this is probably because she didn’t put any effort to find out.

My request for an adolescent program was reasonable. I was 19. My inpatient hospitalization had been with adolescents (their cut off was age 21).

There was a group of about 6 others in the program. I was by far the youngest. Most were old enough to be my parents.
I was very uncomfortable. I listened to people complain about their children and spouses. I couldn’t relate.

At my intake meeting a ‘No Harm Contract’ was presented.
‘No way’, I said ‘I will self injure if I want to and forcing me to sign that just will force me to lie. I’d rather not need to lie.’
The contract was pushed aside to be reevaluated in the future.
I left that meeting with the understanding that I had in no way suggested I would refrain from self-injuring.

I was very angry and aggressive (verbally, not physically). Largely because I was stuck at this partial hospital program because I’d been kicked out of school and possibly also in a small part because of a bad reaction I was having to Celexa.

I was under the impression that successful completion of this program was necessary to help my return to school. Despite despising the program, I felt I needed to stick it out.

The first day was a Friday. That weekend I returned to the school to move everything out of my dorm room.
Most was removed Saturday. Sunday morning I came to retrieve the last few items and discovered another person sleeping in what had been my bed and a large bong in the bathroom.

Monday I returned to the partial hospital program. The first day I had left my sharp items at home. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into (would my items be searched?) and decided it was in my best interests to leave them at home. Monday, the second day, I came prepared with a swiss army knife in my pocket. This seemed fine based on my experience the first day.

Inpatient hospitalizations are under-structured. Too much time with nothing to do. Partial hospital programs are over-structured. One group after another. Spending the entire day dwelling on problems, because the structure prevents one from going out and doing anything enjoyable.

I was frustrated with the way the people leading the groups spoke down to us, as if the depression meant we were cognitively challenged.

During the lunch break I made a few little tiny cuts on my leg. Very minimal, close to zero blood draw.

In the afternoon I had a daily check-in meeting with a social worker. As a side note I mentioned cutting a little during lunch. I didn’t think it was a big deal to mention. I’d never agreed to the no harm contract.

I was transported into an office with another woman (someone with a higher level of authority). She demanded to see what I’d used. I handed over the knife.
A lecture proceeded in a disgusted tone, wondering how I could have possibly thought it was acceptable to bring a “weapon” (aka a small swiss army knife) into a hospital.

She demanded to see the cuts.
I refused, explaining they were minimal and did not need medical attention.
She argued that because I had done it “on the premises” she had to see them.
I continued to refuse.
“I’d have to take off my pants to show you”, I protested.
She seemed unconcerned.
I was scared and eventually intimidated into giving in.
I tried rolling up the pant leg to show the cuts, but as I’d suspected the leg wouldn’t push up far enough.
I unzipped, pulled down my pants and showed her the cuts.
I felt very violated.

“Well there’s not too much damage this time“, she huffed.

That was it. The last straw. I announced I was leaving the program.

She bombarded me with questions assessing my current suicidal risk, trying to trick me into saying something to allow them to keep me there.
I didn’t fall for it.

My knife was returned and I went home.

I still didn’t have a therapist. While making phone calls to find one, many therapists refused to see me on the basis that I’d not properly completed the partial hospital program. I only was able to get into therapy (although this was my fake therapy, because anything I said was at risk of being reported back to my school) eventually when I left out the bit about the incomplete partial program.

Hidden Self-Injury Tools

I should preface this post by mentioning that I don’t feel self-injury is inherently bad, it can be helpful so I find efforts of others to prevent me from doing it frustrating. You might with to read my other post about self injury first.

When I began self-injuring I also began hiding tools to accomplish it. This way I would always have access should I feel the need. Safety pins were hidden in most articles of my clothing. I had a pencil case filled with razor blades and bloody gauze.

In my first hospitalization I secretly brought in a safety pin. A small item I impulsively decided to hide when I realized what was happening. Turned out this was unnecessary.

They did an awful job of searching my things. When my searched bag was handed to me the first thing I did was open a compartment and pull out a brand new razor blade. My roommate had packed the bag and handed it to my parents. The razor blade had been left in the bag previously.

To make it seem I was healthier than I was I promptly handed the razor to the mental health worker who had given me the bag. My manipulation was wasted. This interaction was never entered into my records and I don’t believe he told anyone because it was him who had missed the blade in the search.
Upon later inspection I realized all of my buttons (the kind with little sayings on them and pins on the back) had been left on my bag. I had accumulated a very large assortment of sharp items.

Initially I had decided I would respect the rules of the hospital and not self injure while there, but after a series of frustrations with the hospital I decided there was no reason for that.
I scratched up my arm a bit one day. Hardly any damage, it’s tough to do much with a pin. I didn’t hide it but also didn’t show it off. It was noticed and I handed over some of the pins.
A threat was made, “Is this everything? We can search all your things again if you want”
“Search if you want too”, I said
I made good eye contact. They bought my pretend confidence.
Later, feeling manipulative again I walked to the nurses station with a pin and said, “Here, I found this in my room”
The nurse made a big fuss about how proud of me she was, not knowing I still had my original safety pin. This was entered in my notes.
I scratched a bit at times following and was not caught.

In the weeks preceding my second hospitalization I knew I was feeling unstable. I had destructive plans running through my head with no specific time set.
In the event that I needed to be hospitalized I decided I should ensure I would have materials to self-injure with in the hospital. I hid razor blades in many items that are always on my person.
Sure enough when I was rushed to the ER I had a nice assortment of sharp new blades. None were found during the search. No one expects the lengths I went to conceal them.
I had quite the stash of blades. I cut a lot during that hospitalization and was not caught.
The closest I came was when I was cutting and punching a wall in the shower. The wall punching made more noise than I anticipated and nurses came barging into the bathroom. Fortunately through feigned modesty and angling my body in ways to hide the cuts, I was able to get enough privacy to get clothing on without being caught. I admitted to the wall punching but the cutting and razor blade were not discovered.

On the day I was being discharged, minutes before I left, I passed a clean new blade to a friend I’d met there. She’d mentioned wanting to cut and being friendly I decided to help her out. It’s a fuzzy moral area for me. It’s one thing for me to cut. I know I won’t go too deep, but other people are uncontrolled variables.
Later I heard she cut up her arm pretty badly and was discovered. She wouldn’t give up my name though when the psychiatrist was demanding the information from her.

At my third hospitalization I also arrived well armed with razor blades. The ER room I sat in had a spare unused blood draw kit. I was bored with making balloons out of latex gloves so I took it and hid it for later.
An accomplishment I shouldn’t be proud of but am is that during this hospitalization I cut in the shower while on one to one security. Meaning, I had a person who’s sole job was to babysit me and make sure I didn’t do these sorts of things and still managed to not get caught.
I tried to draw blood with the blood kit. I thought it would be neat to try and bleed until I passed out. I was doing it wrong. It didn’t work. I tried calling a friend with a history of heroin abuse (the same one who I gave the blade to the previous hospitalization) I thought maybe she would have advice regarding sticking a needle in an arm. She didn’t answer the phone.
I later learned those kits are set up to only work when the blood tube is attached. I didn’t have any tubes.

I was trying to express to the doctors how not okay I was. I gave them useless the blood kit and some of the razors that had become rusty from the shower. I wanted them to know what I’d been up to. It didn’t work. I was discharged the next day despite still being very suicidal. First thing I did upon arriving home was OD on a bunch of pills.

Having so many sharp things hidden in my possession makes airplane travel very stressful. I’m fine with sneaking sharps into a hospital, but not fine with sneaking them onto a plane. The consequences of being caught in the hospital are very low, but being caught with it at an airport is serious business. Before a trip I have to carefully comb through every single possible hiding spot and remove the blades. There are so many I don’t remember them all. I’m incredibly anxious while going through security. I worry if i missed one.
To make matters worse I nearly always have my bag searched additionally. I travel with at least three cameras on the average trip, along with assorted other electronic devices. No matter how I pack these items, my bag appears suspicious under X-ray.
Fortunately it appears I’ve never accidentally left a razor blade behind in my bag, but it continues to be a source of worry every time.

If you are someone who works at a hospital I hope you don’t take out of this post that security needs to be drastically upped for everyone. I think a better message is that if a person wants to do something badly enough they will find a way to do it. Also it is important to note, that most of the in hospital self injury I did was directly following attempts to reach out to staff for help verbally that were unsuccessful.

The Therapist List

I mentioned in my previous post that I had met with “many” therapists. The word “many” fails to capture the vast number of therapists I have met with. I’m at the point where I repeat office buildings when looking for new one.

I have met with 20 outpatient therapists. This isn’t counting the ones I met in partial-hospital programs, the ones who I met with only once for the purpose of a referral, or the ones who I met with for neuropsychological testing.

I have an appointment with number 21 for Tuesday.

Here’s the list:

1. ADD Guy –  I met with him a handful of times in early high school when my parents wanting me on medication for my ADD. I wasn’t really clear on the purpose at the time, but my parents signed me out of school to see him so I didn’t complain. I liked him. My parents had me stop meeting with him to switch to someone closer.

2. ADD Woman– I don’t remember much about her except that I sat in the appointments being pouty with my arms crossed while my parents talked.  She prescribed me adderall which was a disaster and I stopped meeting with her when I stopped the adderall.

3. Family Therapy Lady– It wasn’t really family therapy, it was just my mom and I. We’d each meet with her individually for part of the appointment and then we’d all talk together at the end. It was awful. My mom and I would arrive not fighting and leave fighting. It ended when I sat through an appointment and refused to talk.

4. M.S. – I met with her for most of high school, sophomore year though senior year. Initially I didn’t really talk to her about much. But Junior year I told her about my self-injury and things changed. She helped me in a lot of ways, but there was a point where I hit her limit. I stayed meeting with her past the point where she could still help me. At the end we got stuck with her trying over and over the same things that didn’t help. I left and came back a couple of times and a few months before graduating I left for good.

5. Lady with the office near school – I met with her briefly when I had angrily left meeting with “M.S.”. She was so much worse, that I came running back to “M.S.”

6. DBT Guy– “M.S” asked me if I wanted to do a “group therapy” it sounded like an interesting idea. The group therapy turned out to be DBT. The group was full, so it was decided I’d meet individually with the group leader until a space opened up. I didn’t stick around long enough to get into the group. I couldn’t stand it. I met with him 2x a week for a bit over a month. He said things like “If you’re depressed you should be grateful that the ground is there to hold you up”  which as you can imagine wasn’t helpful. The final straw was that he wanted me to phone him before I was going to cut so he could talk me out of it. I have anxiety about phones, so the idea of calling when already anxious wasn’t appealing. I also don’t really 100% know if I’m going to cut until after it happens. So if I had called and then not cut after the call. I’d have felt guilty like I had been faking it. He didn’t understand this and said he couldn’t meet with me unless I could agree to that. So I stopped meeting with him.

7. College Therapist– I met with him as soon as I began college. It was convenient becase he was in the school’s health center. The first appointment I was visibly shaking. I ended up liking him a lot. But then he broke my confidentiality and got me kicked out of my school as a result of it.

8.Quick Diagnoser– She was a psychiatrist who I met with a couple of times when meeting regularly with “College Therapist”. She was very quick to throw diagnoses at me without getting the fully story. I only met with her a handful of times. She prescribed me Seroquel and Wellbrutrin. I ditched the Wellbrutrin pretty fast because I hate being on a drug regularly, but took the Seroquel as needed for awhile. When I was in the hospital she told my doctors there to lie to me about the Borderline diagnosis because she thought I’d freak out about it. I stopped meeting with her after “College Therapist” got me kicked out of school.

9. Social Worker– I met with her once after returing to my hometown to live with my parents after being kicked out of school. I was horrified that she didn’t know what Trichotillomania was and didn’t make another appointment.

10. Fake Therapist– I met with her during the time I was kicked out of school. I needed her letter to recommendation saying I was okay to return. I had a lawyer working on it too, but the letter from a therapist would help my case as well. The problem is that meant I couldn’t talk about anything without worrying that it might hurt my ability to get get good letter out of her. I had to say enough to make her think I was cooperating, but hide enough to protect myself. It was fake therapy. I didn’t tell her about my friend killing himself during the time I was meeting with her because I was worried that could be used against me. After all having a friend kill themselves is one of the classic items on the list of warning signs that that person might also be at risk. The one thing she did do that was helpful was switch me from Seroquel to Klonopin. Klonopin is much better because it doesn’t make me sleep all day. I left meeting with her when I returned to school.

11. S.M.- He was the best therapist I’ve ever met with. He introduced me to the psychodynamic approach, a refreshing change from things like DBT. I can’t really sum up how awesome he was in this little paragraph. He restored my faith in therapy after having had it destroyed by “College Therapist”. He helped me realize that majoring in psychology was an option. He doesn’t realize that though. I’d had an interest in it before, but had so much anger over bad therapy experiences that I felt studying it wasn’t an option. I left him when I decided to transfer schools to switch majors and to escape the drama that had followed my return to the school after being kicked out. I thought for sure that as long as I had a psychodynamic therapist near my new school that they’d be near as awesome as he was. I was sad about leaving him, but not anywhere near as sad as I was later when I had trouble finding a good therapist. If/When I move back to the area where he works I’d like to meet with him again.

12. Couldn’t afford her fee – “S.M.” recommended her.  Then it turned out my insurance didn’t cover her the way I thought it had so I couldn’t meet with her. So I only went a few times then left.

13. Home Office Guy – I met with him once and liked him even though the idea of  a home office seemed creepy to me. I was prepared to meet with him regularly, but then at the end of the appointment he said  he ‘couldn’t meet with me’, gave me a list of two names and sent me out the door. I have not a clue what happened there.

14. Repeat after me– I met with her for about a month. I tried to give her a fair change, but she drove me crazy (more so than I already am). Al she did was rephrase back to me what I had just said. In moderation I don’t have a problem with that. I understand that it can be soothing, but there is a limit and she went far beyond it. I told her that I wanted therapy that was more on the expressive end of the expressive-supportive continuum and she repeated that right back to me, not grasping the irony that repeating what is said is a supportive strategy.

15. Guy who couldn’t hear– He was old, his hearing was going and I speak softly. It was a bad match so I didn’t last long.

16. K.L.– He was a convenient walk from where I lived. I met with him for about 6 months. It got stuck fairly early on though. I stayed largely because the security of knowing I had a therapist can keep me somewhat stable even if the actual therapy doesn’t help. Early on in therapy I bought a book he had written. I didn’t like it much. I never told him I’d bought it. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even if he wasn’t a good writer he could be a good therapist. But things got stuck. All it felt he did was ask me what I fantasized about. And when I said ‘I don’t know’ (I have trouble with generalized questions. More about that later.). He’d rephrase it and ask what I daydreamed about. As if the minor word change would change my answer.

17. Nice Smile Therapist– I found him on a online therapist finder. I liked his smile in his photo. It seemed really genuine, not fake the way a lot of therapist smiles look. So I made an appointment. I went through my life history. And he told me that I made him “too anxious” for him to be able to work with me. I was really crushed, because it’s rare for me to go into an appointment with a new therapist feeling positive about it.  I think that because I was feeling more positive I may have shared things more quickly than I would have normally. I guess though that it is good he decided that on the 1st appointment rather than on the 10th.

18. Secret Agent Therapist– I called him this because the instructions to get to his office were very complex and involved secret codes. He scared me a little bit because he didn’t put up with any crap from me. But I also appreciated that. The problem was that he didn’t have a regular time in his schedule open for me. He assured me there would be one soon. So I met with him whenever there was a cancellation. I liked him because he actually believed me when I said “I don’t know” in response to a question.  He helped me figure out that it’s generalized questions I have trouble with and that rephrasing to something more specific can help. For example, not asking me ‘what’s your favorite type of movie?’ and instead asking ‘Did you like that movie?’ He theorized that it was related to a problem with executive function. Which seemed logical because previous neuropsych testing I’d had found problems with that. The problem was a space never opened up for me. He eventually told me he couldn’t meet with me because it didn’t seem like he’d have a regular time or me anytime soon. And this turned out to have probably been a good thing, because my dad didn’t like him. He’d done something that my dad considered shady with how he’d billed the insurance company an my dad is still trying to untangle his mess.

19. Rock Band Guy– “Secret Agent Therapist” referred me to him. I had trouble talking to him and spent the entire appointment talking about the video game rock band. I figured that if in even the first appointment he couldn’t get me to talk about real things, then in the long run it wouldn’t work out.

20. M.G. – I met with him a few months. Up until a week and a half ago. I mostly was meeting him him because I felt worn out from the whole searching for a therapist process. He didn’t believe me about the whole having trouble answering generalized questions thing which was frustrating. He just didn’t get me. Every interpretation he made was way off base. He’d jump to conclusions and I’d tell him they were wrong and give a reason and he wouldn’t budge. When I’d vent about  a problem he’d make me leaving feeling much worse. So I got frustrated and left.

Wow that took much longer to type than I thought it would. I should be doing my Cognitive Psych HW.

Anyways I hope I’ll like the new one I see on tuesday. I’m not sure if I can afford her though. I have to figure out insurance stuff.

Every time I see a new one they feel more disposable.If this one doesn’t work I’ll go buy a new one. I try to give people a fair chance. It just keeps not working out.

I keep thinking ‘this one is the last one if they don’t work I’m done with therapy’ and then I still end up going looking for a new one.

Updates:
21. No clever name – I left saying i wanted to take break and then she reacted so negatively to me wanting to take a break that I decided I just didn’t want to come back at all.
22. Scared him off– Post about it here
23. C.H.– Post here and also here.
24. CBT therapist– Basically setting this therapy up to fail by picking a therapist who has loads of traits I’d normally avoid.
25. Post here
26. Post here

27. Therapist who I travelled really far to get to.

28. Therapist who I started seeing upon moving for grad school

29. Current Therapist