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When I terminated therapy with my former psychiatrist, Dr. Lev, I gave myself a year. At that point, at the end of 2015, we’d been working together for 10 years, with two sessions a week. I believe when I told her I wanted to spend 2016 terminating, we reduced our sessions to once a week, so I could gradually become less dependent on her. Our last session, right before Christmas Day, went too fast. Any gifts I could buy her seemed an inadequate way to thank her, but I tried with some books I thought she might like, since we both enjoyed reading. And, since I was a writer, I wrote her an eight-page letter. When the time came, we shed a few tears, hugged, and I walked out the door. After the fuss of the holidays passed, it seemed very strange not to have therapy to attend every week as that’s precisely what I had been doing for over 30 years, but in a way, it felt absolutely empowering. I got used to this new sense of freedom quickly and I reveled in it.
In some of my recent posts, I have written about how my depression has returned. I’m facing some overwhelming medical issues and they seem to be dragging on. When I saw Dr. Lev, she generously adjusted her fee so we could work together but if I saw her now for therapy, I’d have to pay her regular rate, which I cannot afford.
I sought out Cathy, a provider who was covered by insurance, and saw her for about two months. The therapy was not helpful. I…
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