I began as a true believer. I threw myself in. I complied, did all the exercises with gusto, bled, confessed, journaled, recorded dreams. I trusted, was vulnerable, did the work, hung to the therapists' words like they were god, obeyed and so, so would have done anything to change. I did analysis three times a week and swept every corner I could find to sweep. I was convinced all this was world-changing and I was doing great things.

But the process of reviewing some harmful therapy started a rock slide to understand the rest of it. I could come to one conclusion. My so-called treatment had been nothing but a scam. I was their mark and had handed over my secrets, pain and vulnerability as their weapon.

I did change, but no thanks to therapy. Over time I met challenges, solved problems, became more convinced of my competency, became less anxious. It was a seasoning I have to earn, not have handed to me from a role-playing authority-figure in a room. Therapy relationships, in retrospect, felt unwise and phony to me. My need, in retrospect, was to grow up, and to detach myself from pretend gurus and experts. It was a difficult but necessary lesson.