My father—much like the therapist who accompanies him—is a failure when it comes to giving advice; he seeks to place me in a situation defined by his own prejudices. He operates under the belief that everything is determined by these prejudices and that nothing can be done about them. Consequently, he has never known how to navigate them—other than by skirting around them and living in the misery that such an existence entails. I don’t see either of them as capable of confronting a problem or a situation—even one that might stem from the very source they desire.

My therapist was fixated—desperately so—on forcing me into a mold based on the profiles he had constructed for me. He even went so far as to hunt for evidence regarding my personal life—without me ever asking or needing him to—driven by an impulsive urge to assert his authority. Both he and my father were desperate to ensure I remained under their control. He even showed fear of potential repercussions, despite the fact that he already had the entire situation under his absolute command. I decided to take a gamble: I played along, while simultaneously signaling that he no longer had any access to my inner world—that, in fact, he had been completely shut out. I steered the conversation toward a collaborative effort where both sides could benefit—a prospect he detests, as his agenda requires me to remain in a state of submissiveness and rigid, prescribed action.

My therapist is a dominant personality, but this time, my father couldn’t come to his aid—in fact, I dispensed with my father’s involvement entirely. My father had viewed the situation as a chance to regain control; when that failed, he simply walked away from the table—offering me nothing in return. He left, driven by a fear—perhaps irrational, given the circumstances—that he might lose his own standing, effectively stripping away the comfort I had found and leaving me vulnerable to the therapist. My father saw it as a necessity—a sort of gesture of honor—intended to steer me onto what he considered the "right path." My father, quite frankly, had achieved nothing, and neither had my therapist. My therapist tried to provoke a reaction from me regarding my father—a ploy, as I see it, to finally gain control over me and keep me exactly where he wanted me—but it came to nothing. My therapist was in a real bind; he hadn’t succeeded in therapy, nor through the other therapy he’d referred me to, and my father hadn’t succeeded either. It was his worst nightmare: I had moved beyond the reach of his ability to predict or manage me.

The man tried to push the idea that I should return to therapy—my father did too—but they achieved absolutely nothing. It was an exercise in intimidation; my father even used his job as an excuse, but that, too, failed completely. My therapist simply watched as I slipped through his fingers, realizing that any return to sessions would only bring trouble for him—and his colleagues—because I had no intention of cooperating. I would have forced him to answer for his actions; there was no way I was going to stay silent.

My therapist—much like the previous one I had—finally had to accept that I was no longer a suitable candidate for therapy. After such a long time, I feel completely removed from that world—a system that doesn't truly prioritize the patient's well-being, but instead operates on the convenient assumption that society has already done all it could. I don’t know where my friend is, but I feel radically liberated from that whole chapter. After so long, I finally feel detached from it all. I used to feel as though I had to return—just to prove, from every possible perspective, that I was truly ready to leave it behind—but now, I have become impenetrable. I don’t know where my friend is, but I feel good. I feel that, at long last, I no longer need anyone else in my life to help me with my problems—a state to which my first therapist had effectively condemned me, trapping me in a cycle of constantly seeking external support, needing those jarring shocks, those irritations, that brutal, unvarnished honesty, and that forced "re-centering." I also feel that, in a way, I have freed myself from the influence of this friend—and others—who kept me in a state of complete abnormality, leaving me in a constant, intense state of tension. Now, I realize that I can do without them; they are no longer obstacles, and I can simply wait to see them whenever they happen to cross my path.

I no longer feel a need for anyone else. I consider myself unstoppable and, finally, fully capable of managing my own social life. I am no longer dependent on the evaluations of therapists—in fact, my way of being has forced them to keep their distance, as they are no longer effective; they merely waste time, operating in ways that serve only to play along with their own game. I don’t know where my friend is, but I consider myself free from the world and its chains—free from having to answer for my behavior, and no longer reliant on someone else’s judgment to determine whether or not I am "doing well."

I no longer buy into the kind of spiel delivered by a professional—I’ve managed to break free from that. From my father’s perspective, the situation with my therapist meant that, once and for all, I could no longer recover, and that he simply had to accept it—that there was nothing left to be done, and that all his options had been exhausted. I don’t know where my friend is now, but I hope that one day she comes across this and truly takes it in; I always saw her as someone dependent on the opinions of others—trapped, constantly, in a way, begging for validation. And, for what it’s worth, one thing she was truly grateful for was that I understood she didn’t act that way because she wanted to, but rather because she simply didn’t know what else to do.

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