Why I'm afraid to write about suing my psychotherapist

It's not the reason you think.

Ever since I got to the part of the story where I sued my psychotherapist, I’ve been frozen. I went from posting on this Substack every week to finding any other possible thing I could do with my time than tell the rest of this story. Every time I sit down to write a few lines and tell another piece, I suddenly realize I need to clean the bathroom or run to the store or fold all of the laundry or stare at TikTok for 6 hours or rewrite my resume or declutter the garage.

Every time I’ve started again, I stop.

It’s because I’m terrified.

I’m not scared that the Creep or his lawyers will come after me–it would hardly be worth their time or effort and I can’t imagine any of them would want to file paperwork against me that would associate their names with a blog called “My Psychotherapist Was a Creep.”

I’m not scared of them. I’m scared of telling it wrong.

What my lawsuit taught me is that every single line of the my story had to be told perfectly.

No inconsistencies or you’ll lose the case. Get a detail wrong and you lose the case. Remember something differently than exactly how it happened and you’ll lose the case. Say something slightly differently than you said it before and we’ll all know you’re a liar and you’ll lose the case. Say too much and give too many details and you’ll lose the case. Don’t give enough excruciating detail and you’ll lose the case.

And if you lose the case, Liz, he gets away with it. And if he gets away with it because you screwed it up, he can do it again and again to as many other women as he wants to until the end of his days. Don’t screw it up Liz. Don’t lose the case.

For the 20 months my lawsuit dragged on, I had to be perfect. I couldn’t post a thought anywhere on social media, or I’d lose the case. I couldn’t stumble in my deposition or I’d lose the case. I couldn’t stop going to therapy or I’d lose the case. I couldn’t show progress in therapy or I’d lose the case.

The burden of proof was always on me–not my lawyers who were juggling who knows how many other cases worth who knows how much more money than mine–but me. I was the only one fully paying attention. I was the only one who was tracking every document as soon as it was filed in the court system. I knew about motions before my own lawyers did. I had to. I found out very quickly that my case was not a priority. And I had to read every motion and point out every error or fabrication or falsehood by the defense or my own lawyers would miss it and I’d lose the case.

I’ve moved past something by writing the first portion of this Substack that was solely focused on the abuse from my Creep psychotherapist. I kind of can’t believe it. It lifted something off of me–telling the grotesque details to friends and strangers here.

I exposed the most humiliating parts of my therapy and showed them to hundreds, sometimes thousands, of readers. I expected to be ridiculed. I expected to be treated by my readers the way that the lawyers in my case (both his and mine) treated me–like I was lying. Or if not lying, then just plain nuts, and because of that, completely at fault for what happened.

Following my first few posts, I did get a couple of readers who accused me of lying. They disappeared entirely when I started posting receipts–deposition screenshots, court record screenshots, email screenshots. After post number 3 or 4 they all skittered away and never returned.

In some ways, I think I posted the goriest of details to challenge them to come back. I was waiting for the world to shame me the way the lawyers did–both his and mine. I was ready for anyone who was willing to read my story to know that I’ve blamed every which way possible already.

And I also posted them because if, by chance, the Creep or his lawyers ever did or do read this Substack, I want them to know I’m not afraid of them anymore–that they have nothing to hold over me ever again because I’ve already exposed the absolute worst of what I did to the entire world.

And I also posted them because I’ve needed the story out of me, once and for all, for years. I needed it all out. I still do. I need more of it out. I need it all gone from inside of me. And getting out the story has, quite frankly, helped a whole lot more than any therapy since the Creep ever did.

What I did not expect was for my readers to almost universally take my side, to tell me it’s insane that the Creep didn’t lose his license, that the things that happened weren’t my fault.

When I said I decided to get pregnant after seeing my therapist with his baby in a social media post, most of the comments I got were from people saying how normal that was–that people often realize they want a baby when they see someone else with theirs. I thought it was the worst thing I’d ever done in my life. That’s how the lawyers made me feel about it–like I was a sicko. It has always affected my relationship with my son–that I was inspired to get pregnant by seeing my abuser with his own baby. The lawyers taught me to be ashamed of that. My readers here have helped me let go of it.

My readers here have helped me let go of so much of what happened during the abuse–by reading every post, by commenting sometimes, by subscribing sometimes, by even paying to subscribe sometimes.

The second round of mistreatment I suffered at the hands of both his and my own lawyers scares me all over again. It’s like I really did it to myself. I chose to pursue the lawsuit despite being told I would suffer, that my friends and family would be stalked, that I should never smile in public, that I wouldn’t be allowed to write anywhere–including in a diary–until the lawsuit was over. I chose that. I had good intentions. I believed. I could get the bad guy and stop him from hurting anyone else ever again.

But I didn’t.

And that’s another reason I stopped writing. I can’t give any of you the ending that you want. I want to tell the story of the lawsuit, but there’s no happy ending. Readers want a happy ending.

I’ve decided to keep going–and keep telling even if it comes out a complete mess. It should come out a complete mess, I guess. It was a complete mess.

A wise friend recently advised me on going forward with my story: “It’s Substack. You can be as sloppy as you want.”

So here comes the rest of it–possibly in random order, possibly poorly told and chaotic, possibly not as good as the first part, and most certainly with a disappointing ending.

Thanks for reading.

I’ll post a new chapter of “My Psychotherapist Was a Creep” as soon as I can.