Therapy in the 21st century has lost almost all stigma. Ann Landers- or whoever writes her column now- regularly advises writers to seek therapy (often in 100 words or less). Therapy is seen as the panacea for most ills: marriage difficulties, career issues and of course- depression. But no one talks much about what happens during therapy. Or what happens when therapy ends,  Or when therapy does not help you. 

It is almost seems that after that first step of seeking help, no further advice is needed. The position of healer is sacred in our society, physician and therapist are accorded respect and still seem to have the air of magic about them.

I saw my first therapist when I was in college. She was an intern, earning her hours and not much older than I was. I paid her $10 a session. She almost never spoke. She was the stereotype of an analyst, I would talk for an hour and she would occasionally interject  "How did that make you feel?". I once told her I preferred more feedback but that didn't change her approach. In retrospect, I think she was very young and afraid of making mistakes. After a year she moved on and I was offered another intern therapist. I declined as my depression had not diminished  over that year. I met the new intern once but she seemed even younger and less confident.

I had a couple other therapists after this but the conclusion was much the same. None were as quiet as the first, but I  spoke most of the time. It was nice to have someone listen and it was useful to be accountable to someone on a regular basis but the benefits of therapy seemed limited. I felt like there was something wrong with me, I was failing therapy. I wasn't doing it right.

Then I met "Hugh" as I will call him.  From our first meeting I knew he was different. He had long hair and was English. He told me he had been in a famous band but had dropped out before their success. He never told me the name and I never asked. 

After I came back from living in the UK, I became depressed. I resettled in San Francisco, went back on SSRIs and met a wonderful man. I felt the best I ever had. But I thought in order to prevent future depression, I needed to see a therapist and get to the bottom of this. So I began to see Hugh.

After a year, there was nothing to report. I was enjoying my new life although I was very frustrated with my job. I felt like I wasn't getting a lot out of therapy and expressed this to Hugh. He suggested I stop taking antidepressants. I was hesitant. This was my fourth time on them and I was sick of going on and off medication. I also was relatively happy with my current life.  

Hugh insisted that unless I went off medication and found out exactly what was at the heart of my depression, I would suffer from depression for the rest of my life. If I stayed on medication, I would just be in maintenance mode. There would be nowhere for me to go. Those who stopped meds, who went to the dark side and survived, were warriors. They were brave. And most importantly they were depression-free.  He had seen it many times, in himself and in others. I would be Orpheus descending, Demeter entering the underworld. 

He was really into visualizations and other techniques. He spoke of shamanism and of taking ayahuasca in the Peruvian rain forest. He strongly recommended something called authentic movement. Basically I stood there with three other women while we moved however we felt for an hour or so. After, the woman leading the group ( I can't remember if she was a therapist or not) would comment. The other women would leap and dance around. I lay on the floor curled into a ball.  

He mocked my relationship with the man I loved saying it was not spiritual, that it was a happy meal when I could have filet mignon.

I was 26. I trusted him.  He was the expert, the professional. I wanted to be free, to be whole, to be spiritual. I stopped my meds. I descended down. I got more and more depressed. So depressed I lost my job. I lost the man I loved.

I asked Hugh if I should go on meds but he insisted my breakthrough was right around the corner. He advised me to go on a 10 day silent vispassna retreat. We meditated for 14 hours a day and fasted after noon. I did this for three days. On the fourth day, I had to leave due to my depression. 

As I explained in an earlier post, I told Hugh to go fuck himself and resumed meds. I am better than I was but I am far from whole.

Everyone talks about the side effects from meds. What about the side effects of bad therapy?