When Help Isn’t Help at All
Over the years, I wandered into versions of help that weren’t actually help.
Some were misguided.
Some were self-serving.
Some were outright harmful.
There was the therapist who started exploring my emotional life, only to pivot into recruiting me for his “Executive Coaching Program.” “This is made for you.”
Apparently my pain was a business opportunity.
Another therapist decided my entire internal world was really just a work issue.
“Get rid of your business partner,” he said. “Quit the firm. Then you’ll be happier.”
I followed the advice. I wasn’t happier. My issues simply traveled with me.
Then there was a therapist who blended faith with confrontation in a way that cut rather than healed.
In my darkest moment he asked:
“Do you think God is with you? Do you think He’ll ever forgive you for how you’ve run your life?”
The question didn’t wake me up.
It hollowed me out. Especially when I figured out it was a trick on my faith.
When I confronted him the next week, he laughed:
“Isn’t it better when you figure things out yourself?”
But something broke.
I didn’t learn that God loved me unconditionally.
I learned he wasn’t safe.
The final rupture came when as he intended to issue yet another challenge. I turned it around, personalized it and challenged him. He exploded in the session in anger and shouted:
“Fuck you. You just go fuck yourself.”
In that moment the therapeutic relationship ended.
But something else ended with it:
My assumption that all therapy was the same. That the intent was the same – to help.
I told a therapist friend the story some time later, expecting a laugh and to let him know I was hurting. He didn’t laugh.
He said quietly:
“We have a standard we try to achieve with clients. It’s called helping. And what you experienced is the opposite of helping.”
Those words cracked something open in me.
I had never actually received help.
Not real help.
Not good help.
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