The “Psycho” in Psychotherapy (1)

Welcome to Santa Barbara. Your therapist is a sociopath.

1.

I’ve been keeping something private because I haven’t known when or how to share a part of my life that’s such a big deal to me. I’ve been saving it for a book, but it’s too overwhelming, including having a zillion creative storytelling ideas. Last month, I mentioned ending my 5-year search for a therapist and healing work I’ve done. Now I’m going to open the floodgates to the story behind those words.

Story. My mind flashes to new agey teachers who instruct people to “let go of your story” and be “here now”, as if pain is never present, or it’s shameful to be a victim. As if they decide that for you.

Why is there so much victim shaming and so little perpetrator shaming? How many times have you heard “Don’t be a victim”? But “Don’t be a perpetrator” or a sociopath, never. It’s like some people can’t stand the thought of feeling powerless or vulnerable.

This is an unusually lengthy post for me but I want to provide a scaffolding of the big picture. It’s broken up into 8 sections if you need to return to it. This is a launching pad with a length limit, not everything at once, so don’t come at me later with “you didn’t say that before”. You try doing this. I’ll fill in over time. Let’s get into it:

2.

I lived in Santa Barbara, California for 15 years. For 11 of those years, I saw a licensed marriage and family therapist (MFT) in her office on De La Vina, who — past her straight-cut blond bangs and saccharine soccer mom facade — was a sociopathic malignant narcissist. She likely had other diagnoses, like antisocial personality disorder and borderline personality disorder (possibly half the DSM), but that's one of which I'm certain. She’d also likely know how to avoid testing positive for any diagnosis in a psychological evaluation.

Pic of coastal Santa Barbara, CA. SB Hotels.

In 2001, I moved from Manhattan, New York to Santa Barbara. I remember the morning we took off because it would be the first and only time my (then) car needed a jump. Within 3 weeks of leaving my beloved home city, the twin towers would be hit by planes.

We drove 3000 miles cross country, taking turns steering a U-Haul — me, a friend, and his girlfriend. I remember we spent my birthday at a Podunk town in Oklahoma that seemed like America’s response to an armpit.

In New York back then, MFTs didn’t exist but they were all over Santa Barbara. I wasn't familiar with their scope, but didn't put much weight on titles alone.

Of course it was unimaginable to me, walking into a licensed therapist’s office in my early 20s, that she was far sicker than I ever could imagine. Knowing I was new to the area, she secretly undertook to expertly exploit and sabotage me. She positioned herself as my closest and most benevolent confidante, and everything I should aspire to be, all the while immaculately veiling a sinister agenda. She was a vile and master manipulator.

It was a slow burn. She made it known from the get-go how superior she was. All other therapists were “clueless”, she’d iterate. I figured she was a therapist because she understood mental health. I had no framework for thinking otherwise. Previous counseling experiences with therapists in New York had been okay. I thought perhaps MFTs were trained differently, which explained her unfamiliar approach. She also punished me in some way if I didn't heed her, and was ever so confident and convincing. I wanted to be “better”, I was young, and you’re supposed to be able to fucking trust a therapist, so I listened to her at first.

As our relationship progressed, she called, emailed, and texted me incessantly, rarely about anything related to therapy. Like the seal point kitten that she and her younger son adopted and what to name it, asking me for my input, and including me in the family activity. Her older son wasn’t talking to her.

We were practically on speed dial for each other, which was unboundaried, and fed dependency and obsession. There were times she invited herself over to my home, and me to social events with her. She complained about other patients I had just passed in the waiting room.

She’d tell me patient’s names and their issues. I’d learn later she was lying in part or full about them — and lying about me to them. Some examples: Daniel the “Matrix Energetics” and “Sonia Choquette” practitioner and his anxious sweating problem; his mom Rulene (whose funeral she invited me to). How they were a wealthy family and sat on various boards; Mona’s mom (Mona was a rottweiler); Heather the energy healer; Julie the dentist; Ken, another therapist; a woman I’ll call “Emma” who will be in the story later; and a guy I’ll call “Woody” who is also in the story later. This therapist slammed this former patient of hers whenever she could. She made very serious and damaging claims, such as he was a child molester and he had peed into her Honda Civic through her car door window (all lies).

When I eventually realized how much she’d lied, it was unheard of to me, deceiving people as if for sport. For no reason at all, when it made no difference, except it was apparently amusing to her, like a hobby.

She justified everything as part of my therapy. She’d preach about boundaries to distract you from noticing when she violated yours, which was often. Then sell you on how it was all part of the work (which only she was doing), of which you had SO much more to do. She was grandiose, constantly and not-so-subtly giving the message that she was #goals, better than me (everyone, really), that I should put her on a pedestal and want to be just like her: “If you want to get well like me..” or “You’re never going to get well unless..”.

But in reality, it was enmeshed, toxic, and she was so full of shit, it was coming out her head. After a while, she ordered lunch regularly in my sessions. Even that was cloaked as part of therapy; she called it “bonding”.

It was the WAY she lied, ever bending words to her agenda. Oozing sincerity, with conviction, confidence, nose turned up, one finger pointing to the ceiling, as she lectured about “Eriksonian trance”, “attachment theory”, and classic psychology experiments such as Harlow’s monkeys.

She bragged about her mentor, “Erwin Bloom”, a supposedly ground-breaking therapist, and how she was his protégé, continuing his admirable legacy. Or her work at Cottage Hospital in the psych ward. It was all a lie. If you questioned her, she would laugh at you, or shoot you pitying looks and scowl, as she argued.

I experienced narcissistic abuse, spiritual abuse, financial abuse, and just about every other type of abuse at her hands. She was emotionally incestuous and seductive (tried to be at least) in inappropriate ways, but I wasn't physically sexually abused by her. I don’t lean that way, but if I did, who knows.

You’ll hear about how the spiritual abuse was a big part of her ruse and grandiosity. When I first met her, she was co-working part-time with a shady, stinky, wall-eyed, obese dude, with missing teeth, who I’ll talk more about in another post. She claimed their work was creating a “new paradigm” in psychology (code for “scam”). She was a new age fraud, a faux Buddhist, and the world’s only nature-hating shaman. This invited the dynamic and affliction of guru-type worship into the existing client-therapist power differential, which added and amplified avenues for her to data-mine my identity, exert control, abuse power, and feed off my light.

As far back as I can recall, spiritual matters have been in my thoughts. I arrived believing that there’s more to life than meets the eye. I wondered about the other side well before I turned 10. Not wanting to go there, but knowing I was mortal and curious about what happens when we cross over. I was drawn to Egyptian artifacts. I picked up Freud’s dream interpretation book in 9th grade but it was too dull to get through (I expected more from a cokehead). In my teens, I explored astrology and Barbara Brennan’s books about the human energy field.

I was an artist too. Charcoal and oils were my favorite, but I would draw with anything. Sometimes when I closed my eyes, I’d see some very interesting things in my 3rd eye and put them on paper — things I couldn’t have made up on my own if I tried. It wasn’t until high school that I realized not everyone had that going on. Living in California presented me with metaphysical vocabulary and options that NY hadn’t. More will be shared over time.

3.

Her supposed diagnoses for me would change over time, which I questioned but this batshit insane, sociopathic headcase (“B.i.s.h” for short) was slick with her forked tongue. Previous counselors never diagnosed me as she did. My family was brutal and devastating growing up. I understandably got depressed. Ironically, I would’ve been crazy not to be with those people. I consider it a miracle that’s the only thing I’d ever seen a counselor for. I’m not minimizing depression, it can be deadly. I mean I’ve never been seen for more than 1 condition. I’m not sure I can say the same for others in my family.

Bish even wanted me to DRESS like her. She was so conceited and delusional that she believed her clothes and the “message” they sent were superior too. They weren’t, they were like J.C. Penney’s “Stuck in the ‘80s” collection for today’s puritanical funeral attendant. In retrospect, that was probably a tell because long skirts and culty women are a preferred pairing.

The detestable shrew alternated between idealization and devaluation, push and pull, intentionally treating me like shit and then treating me like the shit. This reinforced a strong, addiction-like bond — she knew that too, which is so, so diabolically creepy.

During the upticks, she would lay it on thick, crying at my life struggles, dousing me with feigned compassion, placing me in the spotlight of inflated interest and inquiry. She’d reinforce that I was the daughter she never had, how she cared, would never abandon me, and was, of course, always available for more sessions.

When I clapped back at Bish’s abuse (which was frequently), it was manipulated as part of the therapy — to practice “assertiveness” within the “dyad”. All it did was create trauma bonds. Addressing things in dyads is not for ongoing sadism. Or she’d be manipulative in other ways, like crying and begging me to stay. These are just a few examples, she had a bag of tricks.

I tried to leave many, many times. She would always, in some way, threaten or manipulate me out of my attempts and I’d stay. Some call this coercive control. When you’ve been deluded for years to believe you need someone, no one else could possibly understand you like they do — no one else even has anything good to say about you — and you’re lost without them, it doesn’t take much. 

She was capable of cruel, calculated, ruthless, disturbing, hateful abuse. And acting in sensitive, inquiring, charming, feisty, and hilarious ways. Keyword: acting. For 11 years.

Eventually, she became my rock. I cherished her like a beloved parent, and adulated her with near apostolic zeal (sentiments Bish made sure to groom into me). I told her things I hadn’t even written in journals. Over time, I came to trust her without question. I didn’t look into her claims myself, which was covertly just what she wanted. It gave her more power, more control. Once that was in place, she upped her exploitation. I became her puppet and pawn, who carried out things she directed and urged that sabotaged my life, not unlike Patty Hearst (who ended up with Stockholm Syndrome).

At the peak of seeing her, she convinced me I needed to come in 2 times a day, 7 days a week. I did that for about 5 years. She would spin webs about her exclusive work and the rare diamond of a person who was capable of undertaking it; how I was the rarest sort. She kept a small safe in her office, solely for my blank personal checks, so I’d never forget to pay her.

Bish covered this scam with another scam. She made this look legitimate by telling me she was being supervised by the California Association of Marriage and Family Therapists (CAMFT). She told me they approved this treatment plan. She said she called them regularly.

When she wasn’t sure what to do, their lawyers (who were also therapists) would supervise her on every step of my therapy, as well as what she ethically and legally could and couldn’t do. She told me she documented everything and had to do as they said, as did I.

When I “stepped out of line” she supposedly called supervisors there and acted as if they were shaming me right along with her, as an intimidation tactic. It was all a total optical illusion. 

CAMFT is a professional membership group that does things like plan luncheons and advertise continuing education courses. They don’t approve or oversee treatment plans, or anything she said they did. Of course, realizing she’d taken me for a ridiculous, elaborate ride like this after the fact was dizzying and demeaning.

She had “Vice President of CAMFT” printed on her off-white, glossy font business cards. That was a lie too.

For context, I was about as “low risk” of a potential patient as a counselor could get, but even some of the “highest risk” individuals wouldn’t warrant outpatient therapy like that. It simply wasn’t done.

Before meeting her, things weren’t ideal but I worked and had a life. I wasn’t on any meds, I’ve never attempted suicide, and I’m happy to say I've never seen the inside of a psych unit. This far into my life, I suspect that I never will. I hear they're scary and not very healing.

I learned afterwards that inpatient psychiatric facilities, including residential addiction centers, don’t even call for that intensity of therapy.

4.

Originally, Bish had been recommended by my friend Emma, who was her patient before I was. My boyfriend and I had hit a rough patch, so we were seeking support. He was more serious about us than I was, but it wasn’t the kind of thing that should’ve taken more than a few appointments.

The first time I met Bish in her office, I remember smiling at her at one point and how strange the vibe back from her felt. Like a dark fog had suddenly formed around her. It was so out of place I never forgot it, even though I didn’t understand what it was. I realized later it was pathological envy (a key characteristic of narcissists). With my self-esteem back then, I didn’t see myself as anyone to be jealous of, so it went over my head.

It's been said that narcissistic abuse is like death by 1000 paper cuts. It happens gradually. Carving away at you so slowly, methodically, and surgically that you don’t even see it until it’s at your throat. I wish someone had taught me this earlier; that I had the kind of family and friends who would’ve noticed and helped me.

Imagine the money I spent for 14 hours weekly for roughly 5 years, and the infantilizing emotional dependency and obsession she created. There was a time I could hardly decide on the color of furniture without talking to her about it. And she knew that, she’d put it there. If you’ve seen the film “Misery”, it was like that — plus “Single White Female”.

She invited and installed an addiction-like necessity to speak to her, to get her assurance on every little thing as if she had all the answers, including supposedly clairvoyant guidance.

I also spent an exorbitant amount of time listening to Bish talk about herself, which was inappropriate. When I complained about it, she said it was part of this work that “no one else does”. This is in addition to gossiping about other patients and talking shit about people in town.

She gave details about her marriage and divorce, always painting herself as the victim: how her ex-husband sweat so much in his sleep, he “scorched” sheets (who the hell wants to know that?); about her childhood in Hawaii; how she got off on the power she felt when her dad was on his death bed and she pulled the plug on his life support because she hated him; how her mother would tell her to “hold her toe”; beef with her sister “Kay Kay”; drama in her supposed “new age”-type work; how she cut heads off insects; how she used to be so compulsive she’d habitually toss sandwiches into toilets at night, and tons of other TMI.

She had strange “rules” for me, such as staying away from the Vairotsana center, that were meant to prevent me from exposing her, which I will get to another time. She wanted to control when I visited the center.

By the time things ended with her, I hadn’t held a regular job for about a decade. She discouraged me from working, despite my constantly asking her for support with that. There’s much more about this and other aspects of her financial abuse to be shared.

She was essentially my only relationship for years. She discouraged other ones to prevent me from exposing her, while insulting me for not having friends and making that part of the reason I needed her help (including the ones she had urged me to kick to the curb). She was a true crazymaker.

I’m 100% aware how fucking bizarre this sounds to most people. Not only that a psychopath like her could make a living poisoning minds for decades. But also that a smart, social, sane person, walking around bougie Santa Barbara, wearing nice clothes and shoes, in the 21st century could be so groomed and controlled that they’d cast off social media, their relationships, and devote themselves almost solely to “therapy”.

That’s the hold this psycho developed and held over me. I was a hostage in broad daylight. I called this “A Cult of Two” because what she did to me is the stuff of cult leaders, and I’m not the only patient she tried to destroy.

Like the flower they’re named after, one whiff of a narcissist will pull you in, but they’re poison. It’s as if their energy field infects and hijacks other people’s fields with their lies, especially via fear, idealized desire, and — as I would later understand — your shadow. They’re known as energy vampires for a reason. And there’s a reason why vampires hypnotize their prey into quasi-paralyzed states in which they offer their necks.

Over time, Bish isolated and brainwashed me, which is as embarrassing as it is freeing to finally express. I had no one else to turn to and didn't know how to turn to anyone after a point, certainly not after she discarded me at the end. Make no mistake about it, what followed was impeccably sociopathic, criminal, and absolutely intentional.

5.

The early 20s to mid-30s are some of a person’s most impactful years, and not just if you want to have children. I lost them to my worst enemy and will never get them back. It was also time I’ve not been able to recover in terms of relationships, work, or even catching up on social media, which boomed at a time when I was trapped in her web.

Before meeting Bish, I joked that I was a serial monogamist. During and after her, it was as if I had relationship repellent on me.

Facebook launched in 2004. I met her when society was using Friendster and Myspace. Early on, she encouraged me to drop or pause nearly all the relationships I had, and not in good, recoverable ways. I stopped using social media. She was a “burn bridges” type who engineered me to emulate her. I lost touch with connections I had known for years, though some were more of a loss than others.

Fast forward to November 2014, when her mask crumbled, revealing the pathetic, diabolical, soul-sucking, empty shell behind it. I will never forget the chilling moment I looked at her and realized she was evil incarnate; all smoke and mirrors. It took seconds, but felt like an entire horror series with violins screeching in the background.

Actual social media selfie of Bish with her mask off (c. 2006). No filters.

When I rejoined the living, just about everyone I’d known was established on Facebook, IG, LinkedIn, and I wasn’t. Friendster was gone. People had gotten married, had kids. Some people’s careers had peaked, others were completing second degrees for second careers.

What do you tell people? “Hey its been 4ever! I spent the last decade getting brainwashed and bamboozled by a culty sociopathic therapist, thats why my friend count is 1 jsyk lol ffs. Enough about me u still at Disney?”

I felt a bit like the characters in the movie “The Shawshank Redemption”, after they’re first released from prison. Reintroduced to a world full of changes that had passed them by.

But they had time to adjust. Despite feeling immobilized and reeling from the truth of who she was, I needed to adjust at lightning speed, due to the rapid clip of her smear campaign, and the equally rapid clip I suddenly needed to protect myself from the person I’d most trusted.

I’ll say more later but here’s a snippet: her smear campaign involved trying to get me thrown in jail in order to discredit, silence, bully, and intimidate me. She did that by creating a completely false police report.

Laying eyes on it was jaw-dropping. When I share the whole story, yours might drop too, including the moment I knew I needed to call a defense attorney. This evil fucking bitch — the same one who had shed tears when I shared hard things and pledged to always care about me — had turned on me in an instant. 11 years went up in smoke, as did all my goodwill, disillusionment, and desire to have anything to do with her ever again. Nothing felt real.

She was now going to great lengths to manufacture a fictional criminal narrative, in an attempt to further ruin me and stop me from exposing her. She even falsified emails and faked a recording, it was beyond shocking and disturbing.

It contained 100% fabricated claims for which I imagine she forged signatures, including a perjured affidavit from a new age fraud “master” and his cantankerous wife, whom I’d barely met years ago. I’ll call them “Miki” (the Japanese-American weasel) and “Rafela” (his blond-fading to-grey-haired weasel wife). They held “healing seminars”, where Miki would blabber and Rafela would sulk around resenting other women.

A part of me was remarkably grounded and clear. I thought about how Bish had manipulated me into doing what she wanted for years. In that moment, I realized she worked everyone; now this couple. I had done nothing to Miki (or his Karen wife), that fucking scrub (I don’t want no scrub), whose only “mastery” was that of being a turd. I was irate times irate. The false witness he bore was extremely damaging and criminal. Her comments were just dumb.

A flash of knowing struck me. It sounds super X-Files, but it wasn’t a thought I’d normally have, so I knew it was something. Bish had recommended Miki’s seminars and said the couple were her friends.

I immediately understood that she had been preparing to set me up for years. To use them against me when needed. It was a mind-blowing download. One I’d have again and again, leading me back to day 1. Her intentions had always been dark.

Down the line, I was also told at different times by multiple, unrelated, decent intuitives that Bish was a dark witch doing bad spell work. I know it sounds bonkers — we’ll cover this too.

Her false report also pointed fingers at me for things she was actually doing or responsible for. There were pages of blaming, pathologizing, fictional garbage. I later learned this mindfuckery of accusing you of things they’re doing and first using words you’d apply to them — this tactic to steal your thunder and make you look reactive — is in the narcissist’s playbook. For example, telling police I’m a narcissist, even though that’s what she is, so when I tell the truth, it has no teeth. Projecting is like breathing for narcissists; there was no shortage of it going on.

That’s also a breach of confidentiality in action but not content, because narcissism was never part of the “therapy”. It was crazy cake — any way you cut it, it was crazy. It was strange how people fell for it, hook, line, and sinker — at first.

Pretend this cake is made of crazy. Imagine cutting it. No matter how you cut it, you get crazy. An apt metaphor for Bish’s mindfuckery, except her cake was ugly and tasted like demons.

6.

It had only been a few days since her vicious discard and sudden abandonment — done over TEXT. Bish indicated that she knew she had left me traumatized, bewildered, and fiending to talk to her like an addict. She knew I was isolated and down for a few counts, as anyone would’ve been. She couldn’t have given less of a shit. Instead, she used this as an opening to kick me while I was down and throw me under the bus.

She opportunistically took advantage of my hyper-vulnerable and disoriented state, and twisted the knife by weaponizing law enforcement against me. I knew she wanted to cut me off at the knees through intimidation and trauma. I felt her predatory desire to annihilate me. It literally felt like being energetically gut-punched again and again and again.

I got that she was Lucifer-meets-Anne Hamilton-Byrne, but part of me still couldn’t fathom that anyone could be such a pig. There was no amount of destruction or damage to my life that was enough for her. After a decade of exsanguinating me of happiness and money, she’d had her fill. Then all she wanted was to burn whatever was left of the carcass.

Now, I wanted her to fucking burn too. She was disgusting — a worthless, bottomless blackhole; a needy, desperate, trash-tier cockroach. I felt battered, crestfallen, and outraged wasn’t even in the same universe as my level of contempt.

Yeah, she knew things about me. But I knew things about her too. Her abuse and crazy self-disclosures began to take on a new light. I started to piece together the kind of person she truly was.

One afternoon, not long after seeing the crazy fake popo report, I was having lunch at a restaurant I frequented. Bish lied to and instilled so much fear in the owner (I’ll call her “Debbie”) that she walked up to me, and told me outside that I needed to leave until my “criminal case” was over. WTF!!

I remember her expression like it happened 5 minutes ago. Debbie looked scared. It was utterly confusing and maddening because I was the one who’d been wronged over and over! She should’ve been afraid of Bish.

I don’t know what she was told, but Debbie didn’t even ask to hear my side. She didn’t hear me or ask anything at all. She didn’t fact-check with popo. I went to The Sojourner because it was quiet, not for the food. Their food actually sucked but still, what a gigantic b. I wasn’t surprised when they had to close for good shortly thereafter. No one wanted to go to her ice queen-owned, hoochie-run grease pit.

At the time, I tried to tell Debbie the truth. But I had gone there to decompress and was blindsided, as well as so traumatized and shocked from everything that had transpired in a matter of days, that words were getting stuck in my throat. When I did speak, no would would listen to or believe me, unless it came from a lawyer.

How did Bish know I lunched there? I never told her. Then I recalled that a few days ago, I saw another of Bish’s patients sitting by the door as I walked out — she’d said his name was Zack. Our eyes met. I thought he’d like to know his therapist was demonic but when I tried to talk to him, he looked down and spitefully muttered something about being sorry about what’s going on with my family. His tone was very “talk to the hand”.

Did this tool not see how inappropriate it was that he was told anything at all about me? Svengali had done her cow hypnosis on him. They deserved each other. He was no one to me, and not worth my energy. Like Debbie, Zack had no idea who I was. They just went along with the deranged monster’s fear tactics like sheep and they could both fuck off. Bish must’ve been asking him and every other patient about me.

Narcissists, like roaches, hate being exposed. She was obsessed with wanting to stop me from doing that. At this point, in addition to filing a false police report, I knew the two-faced rat was defaming me to whoever would listen, and that she was stalking me online and off. All the while, flipping facts and lying to police that I was stalking her.

Leaving victims in the dark to keep them on the hook is also common for narcissists. They’re skilled at creating chaos and a pace of annihilation so rapid as to exhaust, agitate, and throw you off, so it’s hard to form a coherent narrative. What a stupid fucking skill. I was tired before the licensing complaint and civil lawsuit even started, but she wasn’t going to stop me.

7.

It was nerve-wracking to be thrust into the choppy waters of a daunting legal system, frantically seeking accountability at a time when I was scrambling to get my bearings. These cold, robotic bureaucracies (popo included) seemed made to enable Bish’s psychopathy rather than stop it. I never imagined that trying to achieve an iota of justice would feel like walking through jello.

There is a big disconnect between psychology and the law. It was exasperating. For example, I pointed out that if Bish’s accusations were legit — if I truly was a danger and she was soo concerned — she should’ve intervened with a 5150 (involuntary psychiatric hold). She couldn’t because she’d made everything up. I needed to EXPLAIN this to people. People who should’ve known.

During my civil lawsuit, multiple instances of false reporting by this deranged crackpot monster were found, as was a police report against her for trying to steal a ring. Sweet cheeses, she was literally Golum!!

My lawyer was also contacted by another lawyer, who reported how much Bish was lying in a different legal case; I was told she had been an accessory to parental alienation.

I didn’t expect anything (helpful) from my family when the shit hit the fan. Compassion and support were never in their wheelhouse, and Bish had made things worse with them. I remember how much I didn’t want to turn to them for help. The thought of drowning in trauma alone was preferred. For some reason, at the time, this made me laugh.

Me to the universe: “I had the childhood I had, and now this!!?? Fine, I’ll do this on my own but you better help me and fuuuck you.”

After mustering up the courage..no..the will to even entertain trying again, and then spending half a decade searching for a counselor to simply be kind, informed and hold space, I experienced levels of professionalism that left me to conclude that they’d all printed their licenses off Zazzle (with maybe 2 exceptions). Maybe my insurance isn’t the best and the industry has changed, but I cast a wide net. Whatever their problems were, I don’t care. I do know that it’s not me or for lack of effort. When the final prospect fell through, I felt free and relieved. I’d been more curious than desirous to see if anyone could handle what I had to say. Now I had my answer.

I don’t think most counselors want to hear it about one of their own. I think they feel threatened by liability, or the dark underbelly of what their field is capable of. But then what kind of healers are they?

Deep down, or maybe not so deep, I think most of them know therapist abuse happens and have no intention of doing anything about it. It’s probably easier to turn a blind eye, pin it on patients, or they’re not that far from doing messed-up things themselves. They also tend to band together and cover-up for each other. There, I said it. I think this is the nature of the profession beyond the veil. It’s interesting having been on both sides.

My opinion, based on getting my master’s in psych, is that grad programs, training sites, and psych continuing education centers are toxic. They have plenty of unhealed people who project onto others, romanticize suffering and healing, and like to order people around — including faculty, as well as supervisors who train interns. Yet another post.

It’s been pretty much impossible to be heard by others about this, except for people who know what it feels like to have your nervous system tasered by traumatic, prolonged therapist abuse and betrayal AND add-on trauma from facing the patriarchy that holds space for it, including how vicious lawyers can be; especially your own.

It’s been pretty much impossible because of empathy-impaired schmucks with zero experience of therapist abuse, who punish you for even having feelings or speaking about it. Or who respond with advice (gag). Or insufferably glib, gaslighting platitudes like "be love”, “she didn’t intend it”, or asinine excuses for unforgivable evils. “Hurt people hurt people” is vapid, codependent, and it gives permission. Don’t even try that shit with me, just put your prayer hands down and cork it. I don’t know anyone who’s not hurting from something and plenty of people choose not to take it out on others.

The so-called spiritual types, especially the Buddhists I encountered (both self-proclaimed and actual monks I spoke to in 2014 and 2015), were ironically the least compassionate and caring people — individuals who claimed to be about selflessness but couldn’t have been more self-serving or lazy when they weren’t flat-out mean or avoidant.

I’ve studied Buddhist philosophy academically, pragmatically, as well as with the Dalai Lama and other lineage heads, for years. The dogma and compassion-fixation didn’t interest me, the metaphysical ideas did. Not anymore, but I know a thing or 2 about it. Compassion comes naturally to me (sometimes too much) but there’s such a thing as inappropriate compassion. I might be the 1st person to use “tulku” and “asshole” in the same sentence but they go together sometimes and I’m allowed. Being Buddhist doesn’t exempt anyone from corruption or stupidity.

I hope all so-called spiritual types aren’t THAT smug, but “be love”? Grow some fucking boundaries and get real. Then look in a mirror. Bypassing is a shitty thing to do, it’s no wonder some of these fluffer nutters need to actively work hard at “cultivating” compassion. In some traditions, holding people accountable is critical spiritual practice, so take your kumbaya and shove it. Like way up, so I can hear it coming out your torsos like you’re on bluetooth.

Would they say this shit to someone who had their leg blown off? Tell them to grow it back, forgive and move on, it’s because of something they did 6 lifetimes ago? Would they tell someone with a black eye and drained bank accounts that their partner didn’t mean it, be love, and stop bashing the guy? If your answer is “yes” you’re not enlightened, you’re a degenerate. If I’d lost a limb, maybe people would’ve gotten it. But when the equivalent happens to your psyche, people often dismiss suffering that is just as real, which is simply more abuse.

For me, one of the only real spiritual, healing, empowering things has been to be present with truth, no matter how excruciating. To know it and express it. Without some toxically positive Tony Robbins-wannabe who has never walked in your shoes, thinking they can tell you what to do or teach you a lesson they’ve never learned. It shouldn't be so hard for people to be present with empathy and not make it about themselves.

It was one of the most traumatic events — series of traumatic events — that's happened to me. The only reason I say "one of" is because my upbringing was also the most traumatic thing, and it was longer. These 2 things tie for 1st place.

I hated life for pile driving me in my childhood, and then pulverizing me for trying to seek support in order to improve on it, on myself. I couldn’t catch a break. Every single thing I knew came into question.

8.

I may still write a book one day. They come with editors and, for now, I want to tell my story using my own words. That wasn’t something I could do as I faced a bogus criminal accusation, and then filed licensing and civil complaints, doing battle against satan’s bff.

In fact, my rageaholic, control-freak litigation lawyer angrily threatened to abandon my case if I didn’t shorten my 40-page personal statement for the licensing complaint to 4 pages (which he had no right to do, nor did it impact his case in ANY way). God, how I loathed and wanted to fire him, but I couldn’t find anyone else to help me! And the things I heard from other lawyers..yet another post. I felt crushed. 4 fucking pages for 11 years. As a result, Bish’s licensing board didn’t get the full history. I sent it to them years later, for myself.

Turned out the wicked succubus had multiple licensing complaints, but the BBS did nothing until mine. Animal control is more responsive than that.

Most other stories I hear about therapist abuse involve sexual misconduct and are shorter in duration. The intensity I had for the duration I had is something I’ve never heard of before. When everything went down in flames, I couldn’t find anyone who had been down this particular road.

I’ve wondered how many people are searching google like I did for “narcissistic abuse by a therapist” and only getting hits for therapists who treat abuse or narcissism, which was the last fucking thing I wanted.

In my soul-searching and quest for self-restoration, I researched therapist abuse, new age/spiritual abuse, cults, and stories like that of Elizabeth Holmes, who conned a plethora of highly intelligent, capable people, many of whom came from backgrounds you’d consider solid. Therapy clients are supposed to be able to have vulnerabilities and wounds held in care and safety — in theory. There is zero excuse therapist abuse should ever happen, and it’s always the therapist’s fault when it does. I had vulnerabilities like anyone else. She intended and chose to take advantage of me and steal from me again and again and again, whereas a good person never would have. I’m aware of what vulnerabilities Bish exploited AND I believe anyone is susceptible. Based on my research, there is no single, definitive profile for people who experience spiritual abuse, cult abuse, or therapist abuse. The only possible commonality I found among survivors was a sense of idealism. Oh, and a psychopath who preyed on them.

I blame her, not myself, for everything she did to me, took from me, and all the ramifications of it. I believe it’s appropriate blame. I blame her for the pure evil she exemplified, her endless lies, criminality, smear campaign, and everything she brainwashed and coerced me to do, all of it —  that’s 100% on her. What she did isn’t my fault. At the same time, I chose to be accountable to myself for the intense self-hatred I self-inflicted (and sometimes do for other reasons), as well as the undue insult to others I inflicted because of her puppeteering. Regardless of her fucked-up bullshit, I didn’t feel good about some things and made an effort to right them if I could. It was part of my restoration. I also believe I’m responsible for my own healing and have done a lot to that end.

This is my best, true recollection of an epic nightmare that is still vivid, though less charged, a decade later. Some info will be changed or omitted for privacy, or if it doesn’t affect the story. Bish did not win in the end, though she seemed desperate for people to think otherwise.

The civil and licensing complaints are public but I don’t need them in order to write. Given that 95% of lawsuits settle, would you be surprised if mine did too? I believe cases that don’t go to trial get marked “dismissed” but that doesn’t mean they weren’t settled. Especially if the settlements are done privately, outside of court.

The day the private negotiation was scheduled is another demented story. The mediator was the judge who sentenced O.J. Simpson to prison. Pro: She had Bish’s number and knew she would never change. You need a conscience for that. Con: She guilt-tripped, pressured, and rushed me at the end.

Joe, my insufferably dysregulated, spineless douche bag of an attorney, was in top d-bag form that day too. More later but briefly: I got a copy of an agreement. He was supposed to explain it and answer my questions. Mid-question, he packed up his things, sleazed out of our conference room, threatened and pressured me to sign it, causing me to act under duress. I wanted to slap him with his rolling briefcase.

I had walked a psychologically oppressive, legally constipated path for a year alone, without emotional support from friends or family. I was battle-weary. I couldn’t stand Joe another second, or the thought of replacing him with another him. He never answered my questions afterwards either. It was a lot. A. FUCKING. LOT.

I’ve done personal work beyond clinical psych and feel some closure, which is miraculous to me. There’s no one right way to heal. To me, it’s healing to let the following be said: Sociopaths like Bish don’t change. She is a spiritual rapist and a murderer of light. After her intentional, premeditated betrayal and incalculable damage to my life, the p.o.s. is probably still obsessively and narcissistically seething, every single day (because she has nothing better to do), about how I had the nerve to take down her take down, and deceitfully bitching about me (like she did with Woody) to whatever poor soul she has to con into being around her, because no one ever would by choice. She’s a pathetic, petty waste of space; and a repulsive, diseased wart on the taint of humanity, who will never outgrow the depths of her own evil, joylessness, and putridity. Deep down, she knows the world’s a better place without criminals like her; that the older she gets, the more despised, irrelevant, and unneeded she’ll be, and the more inescapable her past evils and the terror of her own powerlessness will become.

I have 11 years of stories with many lessons and insights to share, including what I found healing. I think a lot of people are fed up with spiritual, healer, and systemic abuse. They should be. Today, I trust myself and my guidance. I make mistakes and am imperfect but my spirituality is mine and will never be outsourced again.

I’m aiming to publish twice a month, but it may vary. There’s so much to say and it’s cathartic to write, but not always easy. Next post, I’ll start at the beginning.

I want to thank Liz Brown for her inspiring courage and realness.

I plan to leave FB and IG for a platform with a moral compass. Come join me on Bluesky social. All my social media handles use my middle initial “R” (but not substack) —‪ @juliarwild.bsky.social 🦋

#therapistabuse