Why I Gave Up Psychotherapy

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) by Miloš Forman. (Fair usage)

From the age of sixteen until now I’ve had on-and-off psychotherapy, counselling, CBT and CAT in order to unscramble the chaos in my head. And it’s proven exhausting. And constantly triggering.

The vast majority of it has been really useful and helped me to come to terms with myself. My life. My experiences both positive and negative. It’s been a perpetual rollercoaster with conflicting diagnoses until I eventually was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder aka Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder. Not “labelled”, I was actually really happy to receive a concrete diagnosis and put on the right medication etc. Diseases aren’t labels so why are psychological issues? I’ve never understood it. Correct me if I misunderstand the term.

It first began when I was sixteen which is curious, I wonder who thought it necessary for me? I suspect the school guidance teacher whom I had a good relationship with. I thank her for referring me. The obvious diagnosis of teenage mood swings was made and I’ve no idea what medication was given. For the next twenty years my depression was spoken to death about with various therapists and psychiatrists and generalised anxiety disorder was thrown into the mix. I knew there was something more but couldn’t put my finger on it. Various other behaviours were raised and I soon felt like a broken record repeating the same old song.

Bit by bit new thoughts were raised and I had to try yet more CBT based around supposed new findings. I was bored of retreading the same muddy path. Then even more intense talking via CAT. Now that, I enjoyed! The polite confrontations whilst expressing my self-beliefs. Ranting on my soap box whilst the psychologist took notes with his poker face.

Another referral was made to the Southwark Liason Team for a one-off appointment. Approximately five years ago came a further diagnosis of BPD/EUPD. “At last!” I exclaimed with relief. Something that finally made sense. I headed home feeling strangely excited to inform my close family and friends. I bravely shared the condition on Facebook as advised but understandably most people avoided the post possible unsure how to respond. That’s fine, I get it.

After January’s episode (see I Made A Mistake) along came yet another referral for more talking. Here we go again. You see, bringing up past traumas when trying to heal proved counterproductive. I was tired of it all and deviated conversation to other subjects completely disconnected. My husband and I discussed the matter and I decided to terminate all future appointments so I could concentrate on burying as much of my troubled past as possible. To execute my demons.

Sure, I get reminded of events thanks to unwanted flashbacks and triggers but it’s certainly nowhere near as gut-wrenching as purposefully spending an hour frantically necking Pepsi Max whilst peeling off old wound scabs. It felt like a form of self-harm.

So, you know, fuck this, fuck that I just want my life back.

Copyright © 2022 Sharon Lawson™ All Rights Reserved

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