When My Therapist Gaslit Me About My Chronic Illness

I was gaslit by many people when I became sick with a chronic illness. Doctors told me I was making it up. Friends told me it couldn’t be that bad. Professors told me I wasn’t trying hard enough. The doctors were beyond frustrating. I felt terrified every time I left their offices that I might have to live with this pain forever. And I had the feeling of being totally alone.

But the worst one for me was gaslighting by my therapist. After a while, I had become used to it from others, and it stopped surprising me. But I hadn’t been to therapy, so I had no idea what to expect. For a year and a half, I met with my therapist weekly. I thought that seeing her would help me deal with being sick. I thought at the very least it would prove to my doctors that I was working to improve my mental health. But what I didn’t expect was how completely it could harm me.

My therapist didn’t believe I had a chronic illness. When she first told me this, I was excited. And relieved. Maybe that would mean it wouldn’t last. I believed her when she told me that therapy could help improve my mental health and make me feel better.

But that isn’t what happened. Instead, week after week she would call me lazy and tell me I needed to work harder. She would tell me I wasn’t strong enough, that I clearly was too weak to handle anything real. That I didn’t belong at my college if I couldn’t keep up with the work.

At first, I knew she was wrong. But after weeks of this, I started to believe her. After all, she was the mental health expert. And more than anything, I wanted to believe her. By then, doctors had ruled out most other illnesses, so I was convinced it must be depression. I knew nothing about depression, so I was eager to believe that working harder could make me better.

So I did listen to her. I made myself sick staying up long after I was even functioning just to get work done. I would often walk into class crying from pain on the way there, but I told myself to get over it. When I was tempted to skip class, I reminded myself that I had to do it or I was too weak to be there. When I wanted to rest, I remembered her voice telling me that everyone is tired. When I thought about talking with friends about how I was struggling, I remembered that even medical professionals thought this was only because I wasn’t strong enough.

Once, I complained to her about how frustrating it was being home and struggling to help cook because my fingers hurt so much. I told her how much I feared becoming a burden to my family and the people I love. And she responded, “My 4-year-old can cook dinner. He’s more helpful than you are.”

I went to a therapist in hopes of finding someone I could talk to about these challenges, a place where I could feel safe. A place where I wouldn’t be judged for talking about struggles that nobody else could see or understand.

But instead, I found myself being judged constantly. Anything I told her would be held against me. Instead of finding any type of healing, I found myself becoming more and more broken. I told her my fears and frustrations that this illness was ruining my life, and instead of reassuring me, she confirmed my fears, and told me that it absolutely was, and it was my fault. I felt hopelessly lonely. The one thing that could’ve helped me feel better wasn’t working, and I truly believed it was because I wasn’t working hard enough.

Perhaps worst of all, she made me feel ashamed of my illness. Like it was a personal fault of mine, and that not getting better was a personal weakness. She blamed me for not getting better fast enough.

Since then, I hesitate to talk about my illness. I started a new job a year ago, and I haven’t told my boss about my illness. Friends ask me why, and all I can think about is her voice confirming my fears that my illness is a weakness that I should be ashamed of, that people will think less of me because of my illness. When I think about asking for extra time on an assignment, or to change my schedule, I can’t help but feel that I just need to work harder.

I’ve told very few people about this experience. Mostly because therapy isn’t something we talk about. And because I truly believe most therapists are amazing and doing their best to help people. But sometimes, even well-intentioned therapists can end up hurting us. I’m grateful for many incredible doctors and therapists I’ve worked with, but I still think this is an important story to share. I wish I had known that it was OK to see a different therapist. That deciding to not work with her didn’t mean I was giving up on getting better. I wish I had believed myself no matter who doubted me. I hope that nobody else has to have such an experience. But if you do, try to remember it isn’t your fault. Remember that nobody else knows you better than you know yourself, and that there are always other options, other people who will support you.