On Ending Therapy

[Listen to an audio version of this blog here.]

Therapy is a weird but rewarding journey. Or at least, it was for me. I needed therapy to cover from my eating disorder, but I ended up addressing a host of other, related issues. It was very often uncomfortable, and sometimes even frightening. We are so often most terrified of whatever lies inside of us, whether that be potential, pain, heartache, or fear. 2021 marked the year I stepped away from therapy, because I no longer found it useful. I sat and stared into a zoom call with my fifth and final therapist, realizing I had nothing to say to her anymore.

Therapist #4 was my favorite brain doctor, gently guiding me through the narrow hallways of my fucked up psyche. He was an older man, a fact that dissuaded me at first. For many reasons I don’t care to address now, I’m drawn to older men. I feel safe and comfortable around them, often more comfortable than I feel around women. So therapist #4 and I had a host of breakthroughs, before he chose the COVID-19 pandemic as his personal sign to retire. This both devastated and relieved me. I was happy because I was suddenly free from his knowing eyes and prying inquiries, but I was sad because we’d made such progress. I saw another therapist over zoom, a young woman just starting out. I patiently endured her textbook questions before gently letting her know that her services were insufficient.