Reflection Paper On Psychotherapy

The psychotherapy was a sham. The psychologist was a straight laced, sanctimonious, pillar of virtue. He never judged. He didn’t have to. His looks of disapproval and gasps of shock where all the ammunition that was needed to shoot me down further.
Religious freaks should never be allowed near depressed people with already non-existent self-esteem. They tend to be too judgemental, even when they don’t mean to.
Never once was I made to feel like I was not alone with my depression.
At that stage I had no idea that millions of people had been struck with this affliction since forever. I had no idea that it was a much studied, much written about affliction. Had I known that, maybe I would not have felt like such a freak.
I also soon realised that

Maybe I would have felt comforted by the fact that other woman had also experienced it.
If I was looking for validation, I never got it in the therapy room.
Perhaps if I did, I would have understood my feelings of shame and inadequacy.
Perhaps, just perhaps, enlightenment would have set me free. But I was not enlightened, and I was not free.
Instead the psychologist delved into my childhood. I think he was disappointed that there were no skeletons there that we could both hang up and shoot down.
Instead of educating me on depression, and on abuse, I was drugged within inches of my consciousness, with even less clue on how to cope than ever before.
The anti-depressants are a double edged sword, because while dulling the pain it also dulled my energy and ability to fight.
So there was I, left in a stuporous narcotised state, alone and afraid, with just my thoughts for company.
They were less scary than before thanks to “Anafranil” and “Prozac” but they were there nonetheless, just waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce and grab me, to toss me around, turn me upside down, and then leave me breathless, panicky, unable to catch my breath, but unable to fight off this affliction with any conviction.