My Therapist Dumped Me Today

Did I think she was very good at her job?  No, not really.  In fact, I was ten minutes into our session, telling her how badly she done her job, when she tapped the fuck out and decided she couldn’t take it anymore.

Fucking weak.

I sat through entire bullshit session last week, trying my level fucking best, for an hour of her idiotic drivel, while she kept saying, ignorantly, “you’re a sociologist, you know,” why clearly not having the first fucking clue what sociology actually is, sat through her bullshit church metaphor, and even did my stupid fucking homework on how positive affirmations can somehow magically cure my MS and prevent the disease from somehow being progressive and degenerative?  I don’t fucking know.

It was stupid.

I told her it was stupid.

I figured she try a different approach.

I had called her office last week in crisis, but she wasn’t in, and she didn’t have voicemail set up to leave a private message, she didn’t have email set up (thought ever other doctor in the practice has one set up), no way to leave a private message.  I told the stupid bint of an assistant that I’ve been panic attacks—

And Sally, Sally, the dumbest assistant to ever walk the fucking earth, told me, an MS patient with a compromised immune system, in the middle of a global pandemic, to go to the fucking emergency room if I’m having a panic attack!

The fucking emergency room!  Sure Sally, why don’t I put a pistol in my mouth while I’m at it?  It would probably be a less miserable way to go than slowly drowning in the fluid in my lungs over a matter of weeks.

My neurologist was not pleased.  I was told Sally was getting a talking-to.  But bringing up Sally was the last straw, and then I was dumped.  Never mind that she gave me mind-bogglingly bad advice, that if I were not a smarter person I might have taken, and right now might be dying of COVID-19 because fucking Sally doesn’t have a functioning fucking brain, my therapist, who is supposed to be on my fucking side, chose Sally’s braindead advice over the crippled, immune compromised person in crisis.

She told me she was referring me to ‘higher levels of care’ and believes I should be seen ‘several times a week.’

I’m too crazy for her.

I have had nothing but traumatic experiences with therapy in the entirely of my life and I made that clear to her in meeting one.

Now she wants me to go ‘several times a week.’

She wants to torture me.

Like hell will I allow another doctor to do this to me.

I had a migraine all day yesterday in anticipation of this appointment.  I spent nine waking hours of anxiety worrying over it.  It was over in ten minutes.  I am terrified of doctors.  They might be other people’s heroes.  They are might nightmares.  For every one good doctor I’ve dealt with, I’ve dealt with twenty sociopaths.  I’m a professional patient.  I’ve dealt with that many doctors.

Me?  Therapy?  After over thirty years of misery?

We’re done.

Published by alisonhebert

BA Social Sciences, Portland State University, 2013, Magna Cum Laude MA Sociology, University of Miami, 2016, with a focus on Race/Ethnicity and Medical Sociology Professional Patient with Progressive Multiple Sclerosis Angry Feminist

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