When I was a student at Bennington, I was known to be independent and somewhat aloof. I did things for myself and was strong and mature. I figured therapy was for the rich only. For that reason I was turned off by the idea.
Then, I made the mistake of going to those people. Day treatment was the worst offender. This “care” turned a perfectly fine, mature and independent woman into a sniveling, whining child. My parents were shocked. The therapists insisted I needed MORE therapy, but really, I needed to end this trip, and get my life back. I wish I had.
It only got worse after 50. I stopped having fun altogether. I turned to those idiots and begged them to “fix” me. What a stupid idea that was! They knew nothing except to blame me for all the crimes they had done to me.
The only way out was just that. Get the fuck out. I did. I can say that it did take a bit, but now, I have fun every day. Every single day. I certainly don’t whine anymore, and I rarely shed tears. I don’t need them and don’t want them anymore.
The very thought, the image of the shrink waiting room sends shivers into me. I have no tolerance for the idea of meeting a person in an office. It turns my stomach. Despicable.