Therapy Made Things Worse
But escaping America's mental health obsession set me free
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Ted
The topic of “mental health” is extremely popular. Therapy is now ubiquitous. Psychological vocabulary floods everyday conversation, and diagnoses exist for every personality trait. One might think universal therapy is wonderful.
After all, the more you learn about your mental health, the better you’ll be, right?
That’s a reasonable assumption. Something rarely feels detrimental when it's a choice. Adults have the privilege to choose if they want therapy. Most adults I speak to who have chosen therapy for themselves tell me they enjoy “just having someone to talk to.”
It’s different when you don’t have a choice.
When done right and done for the right people, therapy can save lives.
But therapy can also ruin lives. Nobody’s telling us when we don’t need professional help. We need to understand the distinction between good therapy and bad therapy.
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Therapy Gone Bad
I wish the adults in my life knew the difference between good therapy and bad.
I was misdiagnosed with autism and placed in therapy when I was only seven. I stayed in therapy for 10 years. Ten years of therapists, therapeutic schools, therapeutic summer camps, therapeutic everything.
Adults turned all of my hobbies into therapy. My art used to cheer me up until therapists labeled it as a “coping skill.” Playing Dungeons and Dragons helped me come out of my shell until clinicians recommended therapeutic D&D groups. Articles on autism advocacy sites claimed all of my personality traits were credited to my (misdiagnosed) autism.
Bad therapy fueled an isolating “us vs. them” mindset between neurotypicals and neurodivergents. I’ve met healthy neurodivergent folks who don’t see their diagnosis as their identity. But I learned to see myself as fully owned by autism. I wore it like my title.
I internalized identification with my diagnosis deeply. I told myself I had nothing in common with neurotypicals. I felt I couldn’t share personality traits, like loving video games, with neurotypicals. I would even walk down the street thinking, “My neighborhood’s sidewalk wasn’t made for neurodivergents. I don’t belong.”
I regularly met with a large team of doctors.
The white coats circled around me at a huge table, and arranged a detailed agenda of “treatment” for almost every flaw I had. I was never allowed to be a kid, to fight with my sibling, to vent about teachers. Doctors, teachers, and even relatives always viewed my actions through a therapeutic lens, and the only accepted solutions were therapeutic methods.
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