Why My Therapist ‘Gave Up’ on Me and My Anxiety Recovery

It took me several months to figure out how to write this article. I have so many emotions running through me that it’s hard to try to organize them. I decided to finally sit down, collect my thoughts and try to write everything down on paper. I needed to understand why I felt so heartbroken.

I’ve seen the same therapist since the summer of 2016. I was going through a serious rough patch, and I knew I needed to seek help — so I did. I live with anxiety and depression, and yes, both those illnesses come hand in hand. I learned that anxiety and depression are kind of like best friends. I learned a lot in therapy over the last two years. I changed and became a whole new person — a person I never thought I would become.

Even though my depression got better throughout the years, my anxiety is still really high. I still let my mind and thoughts control me, and I just cannot help it. I am on medication for both my illnesses, but I still have to put in work in order to conquer my demons.

I’ve had a rough time trying to meditate. I constantly have to battle myself because I cannot sit still and focus. The past few weeks in therapy have also been rough, and last week is when I felt heartbroken because of my therapist. The one person who I trust more than anything — the one person who has seen me at my absolute worst — has given up on me. I know I should probably phrase the words “given up” differently, but there’s no other way to explain how I feel than that.

Crushed. Hurt. Alone.

That’s how I felt when she told me she thinks I shouldn’t see her anymore. That’s how I felt when she told me I love to be miserable and I don’t want to change because I’m simply not ready. I felt this heavy weight on my chest and all of a sudden I couldn’t breathe because I knew I was the problem.

I could not be fixed. I will always remain broken.

If my own therapist couldn’t help me, can anybody? I’m so wrapped up in my anxiety that I’m high on it. My illness has me at a speed of 90, and I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it no matter how hard I want it to stop. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t like being miserable.

The one person who was there with me when I tried to take my own life, when I felt numb and lost, when I couldn’t do things because of my anxiety — that one person told me she can’t help me, and I’ve never felt this heartbroken.