After experiencing multiple hospitalizations, I was ultimately diagnosed with three mental illnesses: anorexia, major depressive disorder, and borderline personality disorder. It became clear to me that finding the right therapist was crucial to managing my mental health and finding a space where I could be open about my feelings.
Following two hospitalizations for anorexia, I reached a point where I couldn’t function at work and fell into a deep depression. After my second suicide attempt, I found myself in a locked hospital unit high above Lexington Avenue in Manhattan, where a collection of white-coated psychiatrists diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder. In a span of just three years, I had received three major diagnoses.
Soon after being diagnosed with BPD, I was transferred from my familiar urban environment to a prestigious private psychiatric hospital in the suburbs that had a long-term unit specifically for patients like me. There, I underwent dialectical behavior therapy (DBT), initially designed for those who struggle with chronic suicidal thoughts and self-harm. I devoted myself to DBT for 10 months, until my insurance refused to cover any additional time. Unfortunately, my depression persisted.
At this point, I was slated for another transfer, this time to a state hospital. However, my mother intervened. She couldn’t bear the thought of her child in such a setting, so she arranged for my discharge to a supervised group residence. I also began attending a day program that specialized in treating BPD with DBT.
Throughout the next 18 months at the day program and three years at the residence, I still faced many challenges. I had occasional admissions to psychiatric hospitals, engaged in self-harm, and experienced relapses into anorexia. During a group therapy session at the hospital, one therapist jokingly referred to me as a “professional patient.” Although half-joking, his words deeply affected me. I had once been a driven professional walking Fifth Avenue, and I had never imagined this for myself. Instead of rallying against my illness, I retreated further into it. After leaving the day program, I continued therapy with a social worker from there. However, over the span of 10 years, I only felt comfortable discussing a few specific topics with her, such as my mother, career, and eating disorder. Eventually, I grew tired of hearing myself speak and became disenchanted with her overly sweet tone.
One day, without consulting her, I abruptly quit therapy and stopped all medications, which was clearly ill-advised. At the time, I hadn’t fully realized the combination of medication and therapy was providing much-needed relief from my depressive thoughts and keeping my suicidal ideation in check.
Without these crucial tools, my suicidal thoughts became overwhelming. I turned to a different therapist associated with my previous day program, who led a women’s group I had participated in. She referred me to a psychiatrist, Dr. L, for a medication evaluation. Dr. L was a rare find — a psychiatrist who also practiced psychotherapy, specializing in transference-focused psychotherapy, an alternative treatment for BPD that focuses on the client’s relationships, specifically the transference between therapist and client. What was supposed to be one appointment turned into an 11-year journey.
Dr. L may not have been the warmest person, but she was incredibly intelligent and, most importantly, she never judged me or my revelations throughout our years together. She made it clear that she could handle anything I shared with her, without flinching. We meticulously analyzed and rebuilt my psyche, piece by piece. We delved into the complicated relationship I had with my alcoholic father, and I began to see my mother without the pedestal I had placed her on. During our work together, my father passed away, and all the pent-up anger and resentment I had been harboring towards him finally erupted. It was during this time that I made yet another suicide attempt. After my discharge from the psychiatric hospital, Dr. L confronted me about my persistent silence and my tendency to avoid confrontation and acquiesce both in therapy and in life. Anger had never been allowed in my household, so I habitually remained silent during sessions, fearing what might escape if I spoke my mind.
Finally, with Dr. L’s prodding, I was able to acknowledge and face the deep-seated anger I had suppressed since childhood. It was in our sessions that I felt comfortable broaching the topic of my sexuality, something I hadn’t been able to discuss with anyone else.
Therapy truly saved my life. Together with Dr. L, I discovered that I identified as asexual, which brought tremendous relief as I no longer had to constantly question my identity. Therapy provided a space for emotional intimacy and vulnerability that was entirely new and invigorating for me. While confronting the roots of my self-loathing and self-destructive patterns was incredibly difficult, I now understand just how important it was.
After a decade of working together, we gradually reduced the frequency of our sessions from twice a week to once a week. When Dr. L went on extended vacations, I no longer felt abandoned or in need of sessions with another psychiatrist covering for her. I began to understand that I could be fine without therapy, a stark contrast to my previous belief that I would need it indefinitely. When I informed Dr. L of my decision to end therapy, we set a one-year deadline, which we both agreed was an appropriate amount of time.
For our final session, I wanted to do something special. The work Dr. L and I had done had truly saved my life and given me a reason to live. While there was no way to adequately express my gratitude, I wanted to try. Since we were both avid readers, I gifted her a few books I thought she would enjoy. But that still didn’t feel personal enough. I had recently started writing, so I decided to also write her a letter. A portion of that letter read:
“You stuck with me. You never gave up on me. And you saved my life. I genuinely believe that if I had never met you, I wouldn’t be alive today. I would have succumbed to my troubles long ago.
Just look at me now.
Even just a year ago, I couldn’t fathom functioning in this world without you. But then, something shifted. The earth tilted on its axis. It didn’t happen all at once, without warning. I didn’t feel the full 180-degree shift. But one day, as I looked up at the cloudless sky, I realized that I could find my own solace, my own happiness, in my own world.
Just look at me now.”
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
