Some good, some bad.

My first, when I was about twenty, nearly pushed me over the edge with her utter lack of understanding.

I wasn't able to tell her anything about my past. But it must have been obvious. It is down to them, I think, to draw it out of us. But I had to keep going to see her. I was desperate.

One day, I forget what caused it, but at the end of the session, I could not leave her office. I just couldn't. I was shaking and crying and icy cold.

I knew that, if I went home, that would be it for me.

She didn't help me. They made me leave the medical centre. I can still remember that terrible walk home, along a busy road, and how close I came to stepping under a lorry.

It was the humiliation, really. Of begging for help and being treated like rubbish.

Other therapists might still have insisted I leave, but there's a way of doing it.

Now I'm older, I tend to expect less - in fact, hardly anything - from them.