When the People Meant to Help Hurt You More: My Story of Being Silenced in Therapy

I once had a therapist who claimed to be Christian. You’d think that would mean compassion, empathy, and a safe space to heal—but it was anything but that. From the beginning, I felt uncomfortable with him. But I was in my late twenties, running a daycare, raising my son, and desperate for help. So I went anyway. It's what my mother's been telling me I need since I was 4 or 5 because I needed fixing. Sometimes I even had to bring the daycare kids to sessions with me, and he would also do phone calls (which I now know was illegal back then) because that’s just what survival looked like back then.

I told this therapist, many times, that it’s hard for me to talk unprompted. I needed him to ask questions. That’s how I opened up. But he never did. He just sat there. In silence. No prompts, no direction, just this heavy, suffocating stillness that left me spiraling internally.(Even as I write this now, my heart rate rises. Another instance where someone in power misused it—another wound left by a system that was supposed to help.)

One day, I reluctantly brought my mother to a session. She always said I needed help, yet hated attending anything with me and despite her telling everyone she'd do "anything" to help me. During that session, I blurted out something raw and terrifying: “I feel like you’re trying to take my son away from me.”

I wasn’t just being dramatic. That fear lived in my bones. She later did steal my son from me. By the courts abusing their power of authority, not following their laws, and me not having representation. No, I never lost my rights. I had rights, but every time I tried to enforce my visitation, the judge denied it. Never changed the court order, just never held anyone in contempt for continuing to violate my rights and the court orders.

But the moment that truly left a scar happened another time. I had shared a weekend story with him—just a simple, vulnerable moment. My son was with his father, and my friend’s daughter was with hers. So, we decided to have some drinks. When the therapist asked if I got drunk, I said yes. When he asked if I intended to get drunk, I said no. It wasn’t a big deal. I was safe, I wasn’t driving, and my child wasn’t even there.

Fast forward a month: I called my psychiatrist’s office to refill my anxiety meds, only to be told by a nurse,

“We can’t renew your prescription. You have an alcohol addiction.”

I was shocked. Furious. Confused. And of course, my anger only fed into their narrative.

I had no idea where this accusation came from. Until later in life when I requested my entire medical record history and read his notes.

Sure enough, there it was—a three-page note from the “Christian” therapist to my psychiatrist. A document filled with lies and distortions: that I had a “history of alcohol abuse,” that I intentionally got drunk, that I was an addict. I had never signed a release of information for the two to legally talk. He had no right to contact my psychiatrist. No permission. No legal grounds. But that didn’t matter. He had power. He had a license. And apparently, that was enough to silence me again. I would later also read about several contacts between my therapist and my mother. I also did not sign a release for them to speak. Instead of helping his client, he helped my mother to further bury my life in lies, manipulation, and create more trauma. That was also, not legal for him to do. HIPPA folks, come one!

Of course I filed complaints. Of course nothing happened. I was just another bipolar woman. An angry, irresponsible mother. A problem, not a person.

This wasn’t just unethical or illegal—it was a betrayal. Another system failing to protect someone like me. Another adult in a position of authority using their role to mislabel and harm instead of help. And the worst part? This wasn’t new. This was my life. And it's written all over my medical charts, including messages from my mother to my doctors. Again, no releases signed for that to be legal.

Like I wrote about in my last post—how my mother tore down kind neighbors behind their backs while smiling to their faces—this therapist was no different. He played a role while feeding a narrative that damaged my care and my credibility.

My heart rate was 127 BPM as I wrote this. Because my body still reacts to the feeling of being violated. Of not being heard. Of not being believed. I have been silenced so many times that the very act of speaking up sends my nervous system into overdrive.

But here’s what I’ve realized: All the “out of control” behaviors I’ve been punished for in life? They were screams for help.

I didn’t know it then. I didn’t have the language other than, "I don't know." I just knew that something felt wrong and no one was listening. When I got in trouble, I truly didn’t understand why. I wasn’t lying when I said, “I don’t know why I did it.” I was trying to survive. Trying to express something I didn’t yet have the tools to explain. The worst part, is that I now know that every time my son said, "I don't know" when he clearly should have, I know that I did something to traumatize him; like my mother traumatized me.

And now? I’m working myself to the bone—losing hair, weight, energy—because I refuse to let this happen to someone else. I’m becoming a social worker. I’m going to fight for the people the system forgets. For the ones who are mislabeled, ignored, and punished for their pain. Because I know what it feels like to have your rights ignored and your voice erased.

This post is me taking that voice back.

Right now, I’m grieving. For the life I deserved. For the girl who had no idea what was happening to her. For the names she was called: stupid, worthless, selfish, dramatic. I’m allowing myself to feel that pain. I’m letting it rise so I can process it. And when I finish this post, I’ll take slow, deep sips of ice water to soothe my nervous system. Because that’s part of how I heal now—by coming back to my body and reminding it that we are safe.

I’ll revisit this memory again if I need to. And each time, the sting will soften. And eventually, it won’t define me. It’ll just be part of what I overcame. Doing so on purpose is called, "Exposure therapy," and it's painful, but it's worth the pain to lose the pain.

In chambers where secrets are meant to stay

Where whispers of healing should gently play

A line was crossed, an oath undone

In the name of care, the damage begun

A tale of two souls, each bearing their weight

A search for solace, a quest to relate

Yet bias, like shadows, can darken the light

Transforming compassion to judgment’s blight

At twenty-five, I stood at the brink

Spoke of a night with friends, I would drink

But laughter turned to worry, concern turned to blame

As labels replaced my radiant name

“No release was signed,” I thought in dismay

Yet my truth was shared in a careless display

A drink with a friend, now an arrow of guilt

In a world of mistrust, my spirit was tilled

From psychologists lips, a decree was made clear

“Addiction,” they said, dismissing my fear

But who would believe in the weight of the soul

The battles we fight to feel somehow whole?

Bipolar, they said, with a furrowed brow

Yet what of my rights? What of me now?

The kindness I sought turned to chains of disdain

Where empathy falters, only judgment remains

But still, in the darkness, a flicker persists

A voice that reminds me of hope that exists

For though they may label, I’ll rise from the fall

A spirit unbroken, I’ll answer the call

For healing is complex, a journey that bends

And true understanding begins when it mends

I’ll challenge the biases, break through the stone

And reclaim my narrative – this life is my own

Picture of a therapist dressed as a clown, because this is not how therapists act. This was completely unethical, illegal, and immoral. I wonder who else this, "Christian" therapist has done this to!?! Sometimes healing from being silenced in therapy requires humor.