Life, Chris(tians) Counseling & Net Work

When I went to therapy after losing my brother, I met a therapist named Debbie.  And at every session, she would repetitively talk about her murdered father and there being so much blood. Unsolved murder, so much blood, unsolved murder, so much blood. Over and over again she talked about this. I don't even know if her dad was murdered or if she was trying to use a mirroring tactic or pretend she understood by making up a similar story, but she kept saying it over and over again. Every time I tried to talk about my brother, that's what she would talk about.  Later on, I had a complete mental breakdown, even more so than I was already having.  I spent a month in the depths of PTSD symptoms all surrounding unsolved murders.  I find it scary.  I find it horrifying that a person who was supposed to treat me for PTSD caused that much trauma.  I still have nightmares about it.  I still have to talk about it.  I still have to journal about it.  I wake up, drenched in sweat because I have "Hurricane Debbie" nightmares.

Chris blurred many lines of professionalism by ever suggesting someone to me within her own company.  She suggested a counselor that would be perfect for me, but it was actually just the counselor who needed hours.  Debbie wasn't even in my town to meet with in person or for EMDR; which I found out during my first session.

Chris took me out to dinner with Dan and I welcomed her into my home for Christmas (her and her husband were late and left early; I had prepared a five-course meal and made sure I met her husband's dietary restrictions)... then, when I was dying in my bed, with my baby in my arms, breast feeding in front of her, she made me a cup of luke warm tea and a sandwich with lettuce and american cheese... and I never saw or heard from her again because she told my husband she didn't want to cross the lines of professionalism.  So, she crossed them when she wanted to, and then didn't when I needed her to.  She was okay sharing a meal with me, but not helping me when I needed a meal… only contributing to my desire to actually treat myself to “The Last Supper”.

To be continued…