A couple of months ago, January to be exact, I wrote about one session I had with my therapist that left me feeling uneasy. I decided not to share it as I was still grappling with what it meant, whether what she said to me was okay and I was just being sensitive. I doubted my initial gut feeling about this session simply because I didn’t want to accept the fact that what I thought was a very safe space I had, was actually not safe at all.
Here’s what I wrote about that session on January 30:
Last week, I had therapy. I chose to open up about this current struggle hoping for a safe space where I can be vulnerable and share my deepest thoughts and feelings. I love my therapist and she’s been helping tremendously with my anxiety. However, this particular subject might not be her expertise, at all. I told her that I knew that my negative self-talk came from cultural beliefs and that all in all, I didn’t want to be obsessed with my weight. I just want to be more gentle and tender when I talk to myself. Her first instinct was to ask me how much I weigh. I was made uncomfortable by the question - I didn’t and still don’t know how much I weigh because I choose to stay away from scales -, but I assumed it was to help me in some way, and so I shared what I thought my weight was. She went on to ask me about my height, I answered. She then, as I continued to talk about my feelings, calculated my weight to height ratio on the internet. She interrupted me mid-sharing to tell me that I am “in the norms”. What does that even mean? I simply said: “I guess that’s reassuring?” It was a shocking moment to me. I never considered calculating anything and at that moment I asked myself if I should have. The space was starting to feel less safe but I convinced myself that this is how these conversations usually go. It was my first time opening up to my therapist about this, maybe this is how it went. She then told me that there was nothing wrong with wanting to “change what I look like”, that “I am influenced by my rebellion against beauty culture to not make the necessary efforts to improve how I look”, and that “there was nothing wrong with wanting to lose weight” (I never talked about losing weight, the session to me was surrounding negative self-talk), and that “skinny is healthier, anyway.” I proceeded to then talk about ways to lose weight, I guessed that that’s what I had to do now.
That was the first instance that felt icky - for lack of a better word -, but many more followed. In one of the sessions where I was talking, very excitedly I might add, about my future, I shared with her that I wanted to go back to school and that I also wanted to start trying to conceive with my husband. I was asked if I was “willing” to do both and I answered with an enthusiastic yes. I then was told I wasn’t capable of such a thing seeing how much of an anxious and depressed mess I am. “You? Oh no no I don’t think so.” were the words of encouragement I was given.
I could go on and on about sessions that left me feeling depleted after I had gone in optimistic. But to spare you, I will cut right to the chase and tell you which moment was it for me. The moment where I didn’t feel supported and instead felt dehumanized and seen as a means to gain more money. The moment I realized the person I thought was my protector, cheerleader, and believer held her capitalistic values over her ethical ones.
The morning of February 9 was the morning my husband and I heard the heart-breaking news of his father’s passing the night before. It was the second loss we’ve had in our family in less than six months. Four months, to be exact, was the time between my grandpa’s and my father-in-law’s passings. The grief I felt was nothing comparable to the one my husband felt - and still feels. It was and still is a big shocking wave that came without warning.
My husband and I had no idea how to process that day except to walk around all day. My therapist’s office is in my neighborhood, and so we walked by it, which reminded me that I had to tell her that I wouldn’t be going in that day or the week after as I might be holding down the fort while my husband is away or traveling with him. It all depended on the visa. And so, I picked up the phone and did just that.
“Can you come in right now?” was the question on the other line. I was dumbfounded by this question, honestly. I had made it clear that I was staying by my husband’s side that day and that I needed to be there for him. I repeated the sentiment, as if I was insisting. I then told the person I thought had my back that I was running out of Lexapro and that if I were to travel, I’d need another prescription.
I stopped by her office to pick up the prescription from the secretary before being ambushed into going in while my husband would be in the waiting room. It felt like I wasn’t heard and that what was happening mattered a lot less than going into a session that cost 80 dinars (our currency). She was very adamant, not in a supportive way. I insisted again and left after letting her know that I wouldn’t be coming in the following week.
Fast forward to Tuesday of the week after, when I was bombarded by calls from my therapist’s secretary who then left a text message letting me know that I owed them twice as much the next session. This wasn’t new to me, I was told from the first session that if I were to cancel last minute, I would have to pay for the canceled session the next time. It seemed fair to me, only to be told recently that this wasn’t a practice done by any professional in my country. This wasn’t the first time I canceled days or weeks before and had to pay twice as much anyway. But this time, it stung.
All emotions started to rush. I was grieving the loss of a family member, I was worried about my husband’s mental well-being, I was stressed I couldn’t make it to the funeral. But most of all, I felt dehumanized by my own therapist who had chosen to, time and time again, gaslight me into believing that I never canceled days or weeks before just so she could make more money out of me. All those gut feelings came rushing back reminding me of all the sessions I doubted this was helping, all the sessions that felt harmful instead of helpful, and every time I told myself that “this was probably how therapy worked” because I didn’t know any better.
It was then and there that I decided to part ways with my therapist. It was an emotional decision, but one that I still don’t regret. I won’t lie to you, having this being my first experience with a therapist is frightening. However, I still wholeheartedly believe in therapy. And I know that once I give myself some time to heal this fear, I will be ready to be in that space again.
My first therapist helped give me the tools to ride the waves of my anxiety, and that I will never take away from her. But she held values that were different to mine. Beauty culture and diet culture were always present in our sessions, capitalism was always present in our phone calls.
I know better not to surround myself by any of those values now.
Good to have you back! So proud of you for standing up for yourself. Look how far you have come. ❤️❤️❤️
I'm glad to know it hasn't put you off. Finding a good therapist really does seem to be a lotto and I hope your number comes up soon. It seems bonkers that there are no registration bodies or places to report this to.