Writing has been a lifelong love. I realised at a young age that I don’t need a vivid imagination full of make-believe worlds and alternate realities. Life throws up more than enough to write about. At one stage, I wanted to be a journalist. That was probably around the same time I wanted to be a vet, or was it a doctor? Either way, it was likely before anorexia decided to take up residence in my psyche.

Life has certainly been very generous with material. I’m autistic, with a PDA profile, which means a brain that notices everything, questions everything, and doesn’t give too many fucks about the title next to your name, or that you’re offended by my proclivity for profanities.

I continue to live with a severe and enduring eating disorder, so I’ve spent more time in therapy rooms and hospital beds than I’d care to count. I’m a mum of three, and I do lived-experience systemic advocacy, which mostly means telling decision-makers what it’s actually like to be on the receiving end.

These days, writing is far more cathartic, maybe more than I’d like it to be. I started this particular blog, at this particular point in time, to help me process something I never thought I’d face: therapy harm.

Of all the things I’ve been through, this has been at the harder end of the scale, not least because it’s so seldom discussed with any nuance. Sure, there are therapists who overtly abuse their power. However, as I have learnt, there’s another, less discussed side, where the slippery slope of blurred boundaries ends up harming the client. That was my experience, and it hurt more because it came from someone I deeply admired. I couldn’t see what was happening in my own head until I was out of the eye of the storm.

Everything here is my own experience and my own opinion. I started this blog so the next person who goes through it might feel less alone.