My Therapist is Gaslighting Me

I trusted therapy. Therapy seemed safe. I thought it was a place for healing. I felt sure it would help me. That belief stayed strong. It kept me grounded—until I met Dr. Kristina Dubois.

At first, everything felt fine. A coworker recommended her. I shared my struggles. My anxiety had spiraled. My coworker insisted Dr. Dubois could help. Reviews praised her. People called her a "miracle worker." Her reputation convinced me. I booked a session. I felt hopeful.

Our first session went well. We talked. She listened. Her smile felt warm. She asked questions. Her tone stayed gentle. She laughed at my jokes. I felt comfortable. Therapy seemed promising.

Things changed during our third session. I talked about my parents. I remembered them arguing. The memory felt clear. They argued over dinner. I hid in my room. I shared that with her.

The next week, she frowned. “That’s not how you told it,” she said. Her voice stayed calm. “You said they argued in the car.”

Her words confused me. I felt sure. The dinner memory stayed vivid. The room grew quiet. “I didn’t say that,” I replied.

“Memory is tricky,” she said. “It’s not always reliable.”

I wanted to believe her. She seemed confident. Her explanation seemed logical. But doubt crept in.

Over time, more things didn’t add up. I told her I liked my job. The stress just felt overwhelming. The next session, she insisted I’d said I hated it. Another time, she claimed I’d missed an appointment. My texts proved otherwise.

Her corrections unsettled me. They grew frequent. Her smile stayed calm. Her tone stayed soft. But I felt shaky. My confidence faltered. I began questioning myself.

When she suggested medication, I hesitated. “It’ll help you think clearly,” she promised. She recommended a colleague. I agreed. I trusted her advice.

Then the blackouts began.

I started losing time. Hours disappeared. Once, I woke in a park. I had no idea how I got there. Another time, I sat at my desk. My screen showed a strange document. I couldn’t recall writing it.

I told Kristina. I needed answers. Her face stayed calm. Her voice stayed even. “We’ve discussed this before,” she said. “You told me you’ve had blackouts since college.”

Her words shocked me. I knew I hadn’t.

“I don’t—” I started.

“It’s okay,” she interrupted. Her voice stayed soothing. “We’re making progress.”

Her words didn’t comfort me. I felt worse. I felt lost.

One night, I found a notebook. It was black and small. It sat in my drawer. I didn’t recognize it. The handwriting looked familiar. It was mine.

The entries horrified me. They felt wrong. They described things I hadn’t done. They told lies. They apologized for mistakes I hadn’t made.

“I’m sorry I yelled at Kristina.”

“I shouldn’t have lied about my past.”

“I can’t keep hiding what I did to Rachel.”

That last entry froze me. Rachel was my coworker. She’d disappeared months ago. I barely knew her. The words didn’t make sense.

I confronted Kristina.

“What is this?” I asked. I slammed the notebook on her desk.

She stayed calm. Her face didn’t change.

“You wrote it,” she said.

“No, I didn’t!” I shouted.

Her tone stayed soft. “This is part of the process. The mind works in strange ways.”

Her words infuriated me. “You’re manipulating me,” I said.

Her face grew stern. “You’re not thinking clearly,” she replied. “That’s why we need to keep working.”

Her words shook me. I stormed out. I didn’t look back.

I stopped therapy. I quit the medication. I tried to move on. The blackouts didn’t stop.

The notebook didn’t stay empty. Pages filled themselves. The words weren’t mine.