Therapists are suppose to be people you can trust with everything.
They are suppose to be the people who will help lead you out of the abyss of mental illness.
They are suppose to be the people that will keep hold of your hand and never EVER let go, even when it seems like everyone else will.
On Wednesday though I discovered that my therapist really meant none of the criteria I listed above and I can’t tell you in words how much that made my heart bleed with sorrow and pain.
So I bet you are wondering what all happened on Wednesday and why my opinion of my therapist took a turn for the worst. Well, it all began with my therapist going on vacation to NYC so I was forced to cancel my appointment with her last week. She was suppose to return this week in time for my appointment this Tuesday, but got stranded in an airport for some reason and was unable to make it back in time to see me. Naturally, I was slightly disappointed about me being unable to see her but I realized she had no control over whether or not her flight took off. I set this letdown aside and asked my dad to reschedule my appointment with her. He ended up getting an appointment with her on Wednesday at 2:15pm . . . or at least so we thought.
I showed up to my appointment on time and waited patiently in the waiting room, looking at the outdated magazines that lay strewn across a small end table. At about 2:30, my therapist appeared from the hallway with an older lady. As my therapist guided her elderly patient to a car, she turned her head towards me. Her brown eyes were narrow and stern and her aging face sported a cruel grimace. I was taken aback by this heartless facial expression of hers. I was used to her greeting me warmly and enthusiastically, kind of the way I would expect a typical mom would greet her child after a long time apart.
After a second or so of her staring at me with her cold eyes, she opened her mouth and said harshly, “You need to check your cellphone messages”. I gulped as she turn her back towards me and lead the old lady to the car. “I never check my cellphone messages” I thought to myself. “Doesn’t she realize that?”.
If you have been reading my blog for awhile or are familiar with my YouTube videos, you have probably figured out I am not like the typical teen. I do not see my cellphone as some exterior bodily organ that I must have with me in order to function like most immature adolescents. My cellphones is used for two reasons and two reasons only. Those reasons are to contact my parents in the event if an emergency occurs and if I need to be picked up from a Raabia’s house (who is honestly the only friend I’ve got). So as you can image, my phone is typically off unless I one of those events occurs which means my phone is off pretty much 98% of the time. After 3 years of seeing my therapist, I thought she realized I NEVER text or check my text messages. I have told her multiple times the best way to get a hold of me is to email me OR text my dad’s phone. Obviously after all this time that fact hasn’t resonated with her.
So after her harsh words, I got up and immediately called my dad with the secretary’s phone (I didn’t bring my cellphone because I DIDN’T NEED IT). My dad look at his messages and apparently while we were driving to get to the appointment with my therapist, my therapist had texted my dad saying she had booked a patient in my place and would be seeing him instead. When I heard my dad say that, I could feel tears well up in my eyes. I wasn’t going to cry though because I didn’t want my therapist to see how hurt I really was. My dad said he would come over to get me and I then hung up. Once I would the phone back on the receiver, my therapist walked to the copying room to make some copies without even looking at me. Timidly, I made my way over to her and gave her back a book she had loaned me a few weeks ago. She said thank you and then told me in the same harsh voice that she had forgot about my appointment and gave my time to someone else. Not sure how to respond, I just said ok and with that she continued on copying a bunch of papers. I walked out of the building and waited for my dad to come get me. I was so shocked and confused about what just occurred that I didn’t really feel angry. But now that some time has passed, I have found myself sinking in a sea of depression. I don’t know what to do because I really don’t trust anyone with my feelings anymore. My parents don’t even try to help me work through my feelings, I have really no trust in my psychiatrist, and I have no desire to even send an email to my therapist because I feel so mad at her right now.
I just feel so alone and broken.