An Honest Review of the 4 Worst Therapists I’ve Ever Met

I was promised a cure in 6 weeks. 20 years later, I’m still waiting.

Note from April: Introducing my cohort, Leo Macfayden, with whom I introduced in my 7 days of healing prompts series.

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Beware the therapist who makes a prognosis that sounds too good to be true. Most of the therapists I’ve used have had huge egos. They often charge a ton of money, and when the process is more complicated than expected, they’ll look for reasons to cut ties with you.

If they can’t wrap you up into a neat little box and get a raving review from you, they aren’t interested.

Here, I shall review four of the wackiest therapists from the many I’ve met over the years.

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1. The ego to end all egos.

Pam had a fitting backdrop against which to conduct her therapy sessions. A big cozy old house with wooden beams and comfortable furniture. Her therapy business was going well, and the moment I stepped through the door, she told me about her many successes.

Her main claim to fame was that she had cured a paramedic suffering from PTSD for 20 years in 6 weeks. She said he couldn’t believe it… me neither.

Nonetheless, she assured me that I could expect a similar result. The price tag was second only to the degree of her boasting.

I felt I had nothing to lose, so I began treatment. She seemed to have forgotten (or never knew) a fundamental tenet of PTSD — avoidance. Quoted from verywellmind.com:

The avoidance cluster of PTSD symptoms is categorized as the attempt to avoid distressing memories, thoughts, or feelings as well as external reminders such as conversations about the traumatic event or people or places that bring the event to mind.

So I was in this catch-22 situation. I had to process my feelings to get better, yet I couldn’t process them because the illness I needed to recover from had made that impossible.

Pam was unprepared for this, and she struggled to figure out a way to continue to charge me and look like she was doing something constructive.

The technique she hit on was pure genius. At the start of each session, she would tell me, “You have the talking stick,” and let me talk about anything I wanted. Topics covered included the weather, philosophy, life in a small village, and the role of police in modern society. Of course, I made sure not to go anywhere near my trauma.

Eventually, she recommended I see a Psychiatrist. She knew the perfect person — one of her friends who also charged exorbitant prices. At the first meeting, the Psychiatrist told me not to see Pam anymore and quit Therapy immediately.

Unlike Pam, the Psychiatrist knew that trying to get someone with PTSD to confront their trauma was dangerous and causing me great distress. He knew I needed medication before this could be attempted.

When I broke this delicious news to Pam, she tried to argue and keep me on the client list for just a few more payments, but it didn’t work. Her friend busted her therapy racket. Even he knew she was useless.

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2. The silent man.

My next encounter was free on the National Health Service. Gone were the quaint old houses with wooden beams and cozy furniture, and in their place was a sterile old office rented in the middle of an area infamous for drug dealing and overlooking a car park known for people jumping.

There were no idle boasts this time. In fact, there was no speech at all. In the first session, I sat there for 30 minutes trying to think of things to say while my therapist stared a hole through me.

Eventually, I gave up and just stared back. After 15 minutes, I lost the game to this seasoned pro and told him how sad I’d been feeling at seeing my dad taking medication for heart disease after he had always been so strong.

This mini victory jolted the therapist to life. He told me I was worried about my dad taking medication because it triggered a worry about taking my own tablets. This was inaccurate, and I told him so.

We settled back into complete silence, only now I knew this was preferable to him speaking.

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3. Slapped in the face.

Back to Private Therapy, in an office decorated with plants — a luxury you don’t get on the NHS.

This time I forced myself to open up and be as detailed as possible. I told myself the pain would be worth it and my honesty would help in the long term.

There I was, reliving a horrific scene, with tears running down my face, sweating profusely. Every detail was cutting me deeper and deeper. The last thing I expected was to be hit in the face with a cushion. Yet that’s what happened. This mad woman had thrown a cushion at me and was shouting, “THROW IT BACK! THROW IT BACK” at the top of her voice.

The therapist had decided I was suffering too much, and the best way to bring me out of it was to hurl things at me. The NHS would have done the same, but they couldn’t afford cushions.

So I was damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I was encouraged with the “talking stick” when I was avoiding talking about my traumas. Yet when I did push myself to go deeper into my pain, I had cushions thrown at me to bring me out of it.

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4. The rage caused by anger management.

I was stuck with PTSD forever, and it was up to me to handle it. I thought a positive step in the right direction would be anger management therapy. People have anger management therapy all the time. Surely this couldn’t go wrong?

Anger was my biggest problem — anger at the world and my life. The NHS graciously allowed my treatment, so I was in a cubicle smaller than a toilet this time. There was no room to swing a cat, let alone throw a cushion (which the NHS doesn’t have).

I spent the first 5 minutes talking to the therapist about my outbursts and problems with my temper when I noticed she looked confused. I clarified with her that this was anger management therapy, and she replied that no, this was just basic counseling and had nothing to do with anger management.

I felt the anger rise inside at yet another display of incompetence, but I kept calm, got up, and left. Considering I’d just been to anger management, I had never felt so full of rage.

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There are many routes to overcoming mental illness.

The modern-day belief is that no matter what the problem is, talking about it helps. We’re obsessed with talking about our every emotion.

Therapy isn’t always a disaster. I’ve even heard of some good therapists, and I often write about the importance of confiding in someone if you’re suffering.

However, this modern ethos of talking has led to a rising number of terrible therapists and self-obsessed people who lack empathy and are controlled by a sense of self-importance taking on the role.

Mentally ill people struggle enough to find the courage to open up. If the first time they do so, they encounter a variation of the idiots discussed in this article; it may shut them down for life.

For me, medication, the love of my family, and a process of gradual exposure to my trauma changed everything. I am Depression and PTSD free. Recovery is possible, and there are many routes to a joyful life.

Just keep going.