Sanguine Poetry

By: Angel (system host)

I… find therapy unhelpful. 

I know it’s a controversial take, especially as someone who has so much complex trauma and mental health experiences. But quite honestly, therapy always does more damage that in it fixes, especially these days. Therefore, my system and I firmly believe that the person who knows yourself best is you — and thus, you are the person you should trust most with your wellbeing. And yes, this does  come from a variety of fucked-up places: guilt, shame, shock, grief, loneliness. However, those reasons aren’t exactly as irrational as you might think. 

See, a lot of the time, therapy tends to replace close connections. What I mean, is: instead of talking to your friend about the issue, you talk to your therapist. Your loved ones know nothing… which, in our experience, gives them a license not to care. Therapy is thrown around as the solution to all your problems. “Have you tried therapy?” people ask, meaning well, but secretly wishing you’d be more ‘convenient’ and ‘sane’ so they can digest you better. 

I am convinced it’s become the 21st-century-approved equivalent of telling someone “you’re being too much, so not my problem!”. 

For example — in the beginning of the year, I’d emailed my college’s disability support centre asking for financial support with an app that would immensely help my ADHD ass stay organized. The centre, of course, responded that they didn’t have funding to help me secure that software, then thew me that ever-present line as a conclusion — “have you been referred to therapy for help with your executive dysfuction?” 

That, dear reader, is like referring someone with a diagnosed need for reading glasses to dyslexia therapy so that they can “function better”. Absurd, am I right?

And sure, I bet therapy is helpful for a lot of people, and I don’t deny its power and potential when used correctly. However, for me personally… it makes me feel more unsafe than being alone, with my thoughts, in the dark, at 4 am, ever could. Let me explain: every time I have a suicidal thought, out of nowhere comes a looming sense of impending doom — the fear that I could end up in a mental hospital, with very real, very disturbing consequences for my mental and physical well-being. 

“I could be imprisoned for life,” my brain tells me… Suddenly, I feel like a convict fleeing the justice system just because someone who is supposed to help me is now cautiously prodding me with a ten-foot pole.

And some of them don’t even say it! Some of them just quietly refer you to another person while you sit there, confused and lost. And although it’s better than just confidently misleading me, I’d still appreciate an admission of insufficiency from you.. especially because you are someone who is supposed to be my safe place.

I tend to be very intelligent and self-aware, and Dr. Google is way better than any psychologist I’ve ever met at telling me the next steps with my problem. Meaning comes into my life the adventure, fun, and connections that I indulge in every day. My loved ones help me with my feelings, and it will always remain like that… So why should I — a very broke, very busy, very tired college student — waste my time, money, and energy on something less effective than what can be attained for free? 

I’d rather use it all to buy more plushies for our littles, cling to my gf in the most criminally adorable way, and rage-bake copious amounts of tiramisu. I promise, it’s eons more effective than any therapist you’ll ever find.