I see you say you were brutally raped...now how does that make you feel?

So...the topic for the day is therapists. I hate therapists. I had my first encounter with one at the age of 10. She was the Christian type, said "uh huh" a lot and continually reminded me that no one was perfect except Jesus. It didn't bother me that she was Christian, it bothered me that all of my beliefs (ie: that dolls have some kind of life existence just because children believe they do) were symptoms of me being some kind of crazy, yet her religious beliefs were totally normal. I guess that goes back to the fact that it's not a delusion if it's shared. Then there was Dr. Old Douche I saw when I was 17. He was a bit of a behaviorist, with a lot of "Dr. it hurts when I do this," "durrp well then don't do that," style advice. He agreed with me when I told him no one would miss me if I died. Then there was the crazy old lady who ran an operation out of her basement and only accepted cash and checks because apparently dealing with credit cards is too "expensive" for a therapist to deal with.

After these experiences, I was pretty much done with therapy. Unfortunately for most people with depression, we're also addicted to the laced placebos they call antidepressants. And when you're addicted to antidepressants, you'll heavily consider suicide anytime you forget to take them. Because of this, I had to find a new pill doctor to give me something less useless than Zoloft...which ended up being the slightly less dangerous but equally useless Lexapro. He also kept pushing me to do therapy with the, "so how would you feel about therapy, you know I would really like us to do therapy, so I'll put you down for next week how's that okay see you then." I figured therapy was a good idea but sort of felt like I'd hurt the guy's feelings if I didn't give him a try. Fast forward a few weeks.

This guy looks like a gay leprechaun. He always wears pink, mint green, or white collared shirts with suspenders and he has red hair and a red beard. When I talk to him, he never takes notes like a normal psychiatrist: just nods and smirks a little. The last straw was the other day when I told him I was angry that my (astral) rapist was on facebook now. He said.

"Well it seems that the problem isn't what you might do with her, the problem is this conflict in yourself between this rape victim role where you get to be overpowered by passion that appeals to you and this kind of prudish virgin role."

I wanted to beat this guy up. Seriously...THE RAPE VICTIM ROLE DOES NOT APPEAL TO ME! Even if some kind of S&M-ish ideals appeal to me, as per Larissa, I know that the reality is not a romance novel where you get "overpowered by passion" that you can't be held accountable for. Reality is being used and fought and stolen from and thrown out and abandoned, most rapists don't even have the common decency to acknowledge you after or give you any validation that it even happened. When I say I was raped I don't mean I had a wet dream. I started to tell him that I can't deal with people who don't believe me and he smirked again and gave me the "time's up when are you paying me" line.

I want to fire this guy but he makes me feel so guilty for questioning him, like "he's the expert and I'm just the stupid patient." I hate that feeling and I just want to get out of this, but I still need meds. This really sucks.