
What the hell kind of therapy was this?
I could feel the anger rising in me. I knew what had happened was inappropriate but I’d been so stunned that I couldn’t feel much before that moment. But as I read the text from one of my best friends after I’d recounted the experience to her, my shock turned from numbness to outrage.
My therapist had slut-shamed me.
Let’s rewind.
It had taken me years to enter therapy. I suffered from severe anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder after an abusive relationship and sexual assaults. For various reasons, I thought I could manage it well enough on my own. I was good at asking myself the hard questions, at uncovering the deepest truths at the core of my issues, and at challenging growth within myself.
I knew what therapy was about and I was doing a damn fine job of providing it to myself. Or so I thought.
At some point, it came to my attention that the issues I thought I’d so diligently and thoroughly worked through weren’t resolved. Or they had become unresolved. Or something. My ability to manage had depleted. I started having panic attacks, intense anxiety, and flashbacks.
If your loved one suffers from PTSD, here’s some advice on how you can help. Post continues after video.