Five and done (tw)
Therapy felt like slow and gentle emotional rape. It's for your own good, they said. Just take off your defenses and let it happen, they said. Relax, it's your choice to be here, they said. You can stop it whenever you want, they said.
That's a false choice if I ever heard one, telling me I don't have to undress my soul and let someone touch me while holding the loaded gun of my life to my head. There's no choice there. Well, almost none. Between the hell of therapy and the hell of living as I am, it took me five sessions to decide which was worse.
Therapy is supposed to give you skills to deal with life. I need therapy to gain skills to deal with therapy, apparently.
I might not be done forever, but I'm done for now and I'm done with her.