I have had a long, tumultuous, relationship with talk therapy.

I love it.

I hate it.

It’s alright.

Fuck nah.

Just to go back to it’s alright, again.

I’ve run randomly through all of these feelings, sometimes lapping over another, and for almost thirty years.

I’ve said this before, but I was first put into talk therapy when I was thirteen years old.

I wanted to drive the family car into a fucking tree.

And my Mom said that I needed to talk to someone.

Her name was Judy.

I honestly don’t remember much of her, but I do remember drawing some pictures.

I don’t know what was made of it all though.

So, that did nothing.

As I got into my teenage years the doomy feelings just lingered and got worse.

And after graduating high school in 2001, I dipped in and out of therapy.

Throughout college I remember having several therapists during that time (at separate intervals) that I would see when things got really bad.

But then I dropped them because it did nothing.

It was a good place to rant though.

I could get out my anger at least.

I would leave feeling a little lighter.

Onto and through living in Lansing, Michigan in the 2000’s I was using heavily and wasn’t seeing anyone for talk therapy.

Besides, it did nothing.

When I moved back to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where I grew up, in like late 2009, I was getting clean and starting to get sicker and sicker.

I was getting angrier and had burned many bridges already.

I was hearing the paranormal throughout this entire time.

Or what I told myself was paranormal.

And I didn’t see just one therapist during that time.

I can’t remember any of their names, but there were plenty.

I would tell my life story to one.

Talk about what was bugging me today.

And then never see them again.

Just to schedule an appointment with someone. We and do the same thing.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Because, it did nothing.

But it was a good place to vent when I was really struggling.

Fast forward to Montana days in 2014 I started seeing a woman named Christine.

She was good.

She asked me if I heard voices.

I said I did.

She said do you know that they’re not real?

Are they you?

I don’t know, I think so, and I know they’re not real.

She looked at me sorta sideways and I just said they’re me.

Realizing that then she wasn’t wanting to discuss it any further.

So I saw her most of the time I was in Montana.

But very off and on.

My marrige started crumbling and I stopped going.

After all, therapy does nothing.

But it’s a great place to vent.

2018 I moved to Denver, Colorado with my at the time husband, now ex (thank fuck).

I kept up with therapy.

Even though I didn’t really want to.

I started with someone.

I don’t remember their name.

But I was getting worse.

I could feel everything becoming urgent.

I started blacking out slowly, randomly.

And my then psychiatrist – who I still love, was noticing these changes in me.

So he suggested a six week IOP for DBT (an intensive outpatient program for dialectical behavior therapy).

And I did it.

And I felt a lot better.

I was meeting people every day for weeks who had the same issues.

Maybe they’re on to something with this.

I’ve never had therapy do anything before.

But I felt refreshed.

I felt like my explosions were getting better for a few weeks after the program.

But I was still in a toxic marriage.

I still wasn’t really participating in my recovery.

So I inquired with the same psychiatrist about a one on one talk therapist and he gave me the name of a woman, Marilee.

I saw her for almost a year.

I stopped going because she called it like it is and she knew I wasn’t doing the work – she could tell my mental health was failing.

But I dropped her because I was getting worse and I can’t handle this and I’m going through a divorce and I just couldn’t right then.

Looking back, I think she was getting frustrated with me.

I was getting worse and I wasn’t doing much about it but bitch about other people.

I would talk about how everyone is affecting me, not what I was doing.

So, after she got flustered with me one visit, I left, and I didn’t have a therapist for about six months or so.

But then the blackouts were rampant.

I was hearing things and I couldn’t live my life without being explosive and doomy.

Then I met Molly.

I can’t remember if someone recommended her or if I found her.

But she’s the one I talk about in my entry “The Water Park Bridge”.

She was amazing.

Because at that time, post divorce, I lost my shit.

I had no idea who I was anymore and my mental health was plummeting into darkness.

She showed me that there are therapists that will listen and notice things because she knew something was wrong with me and not that there’s anything wrong with me, but something was wrong with me.

I had been stabbed just before seeing Molly.

It happened about two months after my divorce was finalized.

So, shit had hit the motherfucking fan.

And she could tell I was hurting.

She thought that I was dealing with DID (dissociative identity disorder).

I straight up told her I heard voices off the bat.

Because they got bad at the end of my marriage and I heard my ex-husband’s voice in my head for years after leaving him.

The yelling and berating of me was constant, and in his voice in my head.

Fucking terrible.

She did the guided meditation, the one in the blog entry.

And I don’t think she’s entirely wrong.

It’s a whole different entry though, ha!

Oh my god, then there was Natalie.

See, it’s then 2021 and she had been my therapist since Molly left her practice in late 2020.

I wasn’t happy with her (Molly) for leaving, but she’s gotta do what she’s gotta do in her life too.

I took a lot away from her because for the first time, someone believed me.

She saw through my words and saw how disconnected I am.

Someone heard me, and did things that I didn’t think were possible, and it was all talk therapy.

Floored me.

I think it works.

But getting back to Natalie.

She was horrid.

She was in it for the paycheck and when I was screaming at her that the CIA is after me and they’re going to kill me, she’d just tell me no, they’re not, Keren.

And I’d just scream more because I didn’t understand why she wasn’t understanding the terror of psychosis.

She wasn’t believing me.

She wasn’t hearing me.

I was sick and there wasn’t a thing she cared to do about it.

And I didn’t know it was psychosis for another six months or so.

It got to be 2022 and I was moved to Texas to live with my parents.

I think I agreed to it – obviously, I’m here.

But I don’t remember shit until the hospital told me I was psychotic in Jan of last year and got me on the first ever antipsychotics.

And then I met Hannah.

And she’s awesome, I still work with her even though I’m still wanting to pull away at times.

She calls me out in the most loving and supportive ways.

She’s a fucking gem. 

I 100% am a firm believer in talk therapy now.

I go every week.

And I may pull away from it time to time.

But I do think it’s a priceless tool.

I even have a bumper sticker on my car that says “going to therapy is cool”.

And it is.

– Keren