Dear M,

That was my story to tell.

You violated professional patient-doctor confidentiality policies. You had the honor, the privilege of a Release of Information and you disseminated what you learned to others without my knowledge or permission, and you got it all wrong.

I’m laying in bed tonight, with a mostly empty stomach, feeling nauseous that that happened.

Feeling deeply hurt that not even a dozen years of friendship could be trusted.

It is impossible for me to comprehend how you could hold pieces of my trauma story, tell it to others, and then proceed to drop silent as if I never existed to you in a way that was remotely meaningful.

It was mine, those were my words, not yours. And you were bound to the law and still you cared less. It was so hard for you to even make time to talk to hear the story from my therapist that you didn’t even really hear it.

You need so much help.

I’m sad for that, and that you’re blind to it and all the hurt you’ve caused me.

I’m angry, too.

I’m angry for the girl that spent last spring and summer suffering so much she needed your medical help and she needed you to know why it was so bad and she desperately needed you to hold space for her.

I’m angry you couldn’t do that and that you failed terrifically at upholding any relationship with me by destroying my trust with a major, major breach of confidentiality. I feel sick when I think about all the people that might know parts of my story that was wrong from the second it left your lips and I’m sure has only continued to breakdown further as it passed from person to person.

It’s terrifying to hold the story inside me and it gets stuck in my throat so often—I’m angry you did exactly what I feared all along. You proved it’s not safe out there. You proved my words aren’t meant to hold with care.

Fuck you.

I didn’t deserve that.

I deserved confidentiality. I deserved trust. I deserved to be greeted by your love and care and concern when I cried in your office that I needed something—anything—to fix my brain because I just wanted to die.

Instead I left your office last July feeling less-than, friendless, dumb, and embarrassed.

You shouldn’t even be allowed to practice. Your quality of care has decayed and become disgustingly rotten.

It is APPALLING that you repeated my story at all but even more so to people I know and see regularly. I want to scream FUCK YOU to your face.

I get panicky wondering how I can grab all the pieces of my butchered story that seem like they are suspended in the air all over town. Sometimes I get sad about it but mostly I am angry I can never take it back. I can never take my story back from the way that you fucked it up.

Letting this anger go, which I thought I had done, is apparently too much for me. I feel like letting all of these hurts go from the last 10 months will set me up for being hurt again.

Sometimes I want to hurt myself in order to protect myself. I want depression to stay so I’m not vulnerable with anyone.

2 thoughts on “M*******

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