This is the title of a song by Eminem. I first heard it in a taxi taking us from the airport to our hotel in Berlin. It left me feeling quite emotional, and it still does.

It has been my ear worm today, as I have a big clear out of clothes and possessions. There are several big bags, some for the tip, some to charity, some in the bin. Within a couple of hours they will be removed, nothing to trip over, no raking back through them, should I hang onto this?

Gone for good. Good riddance!

If only therapy could do that I would be overjoyed.

I know quite a few of you have found it very useful, not to say transformative. That has not been my experience. I don't include hypnotherapy, which helped greatly with dental phobia and gut problems.

An ex-partner and I had relationship counselling. The initial euphoria of a cessation of hostilities soon reverted. I cancelled our last session, when he ran off with the woman who was a figment of my imagination, or so he had our therapist believing.

I went into Gestalt group therapy, that did make me feel less lonely and more supported, but real life ain't like that. One thing from their "beliefs" rang true and still does. Depression is anger turned inwards.

The worst was a clinical psychologist at my GPs. One thing she promised to sort out was my fear of being abandoned. Ironic given that she continually failed to show up, eventually disappeared altogether. However, the few sessions we had dug deep. She was convinced that an incident I recounted involving my mother was sexual abuse. Now she did some nasty things, but that truly was not among them. Walking back from one session someone stopped to ask if I was ok. I was ashen faced.

Next was CBT, on the NHS. I could see the logic, but it's way too pat, one size fits all. I felt I had failed until I read that it is only used by the NHS so much because it is cheap. Conditions like depression and anxiety are not helped.

A woman therapist who published books and lectured about the problems of women with Aspergers partners turned out to be clearly on the spectrum herself, very hard to talk to. I never went back.

The last therapist I tried was 15 years ago. He had a doctorate, and was on the expert witness list for forensic crime evidence. This impressed me then, but since the Lucy Letby case I would run a mile! We had an introductory session (£85). He said he wanted to help, I liked him. We agreed to carry on. I was in a bad way, but it was 10 weeks before his secretary offered me a second session. I felt really let down, and declined. 

And so now I rely on good old Professor Prozac, and the warmth and wisdom of Moodscope.

I must get out before the tip closes, then I can chuck these sacks into the skip, and walk away.

Val

A Moodscope member