(Originally posted 7-Apr-2018)
Probably for as long as I’ve had home internet, I’ve been studying mental illnesses.
See, I broke my first therapist.
I was around 12 and I was starting to act out, I guess. I didn’t think I was — acting out, that is — but at some point I absent-mindedly and utterly without malice damaged something of my step-dad’s and landed my first appointment with a psychologist.
(Looking back, it’s so clear I was dissociating.)
Now, it’s possible she retired, but the way I remember is that she quit after she couldn’t figure me out. And since then, I’ve thought of myself as hopelessly confusing. Or just hopeless.
(Not any longer, but for many long, difficult years.)
Marriage troubles in my first life also led to me visiting a number of different professionals. This is where it got tricky. When “we” didn’t get the diagnosis “we” expected, we moved on to another therapist. I must have seen a half dozen psychologists in as many years. Why couldn’t any of them figure out what was wrong with me? I mean obviously, it was all me, and not him.
In a word, gaslighting.
/ incomplete /