Why I don't believe in therapy

An essay on what psychology is and who we should trust with its practice

Dear T,

The title here isn’t exactly true. After a good conversation with my sister I realized I do believe in therapy. What’s wrong with going to somebody who knows the ins and outs of your mind, who’s strong, and happy, and healthy, and wise — someone to pick apart your failings and hang-ups, and point you in a better direction?

Good luck walking into an office and finding any rando who fits that description: what I actually don’t believe in is therapists.

I just don’t have faith that people like this exist as a profession. I figure that psychologists and therapists are like doctors — who are just like employees everywhere else. That means there are free-thinkers and lemmings among them; that some therapists are lazy and others work hard; that some care about you personally and others are just there for a paycheck — and quite frankly, the people I know who talk about mental health the most are (usually) a bunch of losers and screw-ups***. I would ask them which church they go to just so I could avoid the church*. I’d ask which self-help books they read just so I could make fun of the books. Babysitting is out of the question: I wouldn't trust them to take care of a sourdough starter. The hallmark of people who talk about mental health a lot is congenital misery — SSRIs, and panic attacks, and calling in sick for a “mental health day.” They’re always talking about solutions and never getting better because their whole approach to the world is the problem.

To really judge a school of psychology I would thus have to see two kinds of people up close: not just the man himself as a psychologist, but a whole slew of people he treats as his patients. And I’m not sure which I’d have to see for longer.

For the man himself I’d want to see his family — for instance, if he had one. What use do I have for a psychologist who can't convince a woman to marry him? I’d want to see his wife and what kind of a woman she is: whether she’s fit, and happy, whether she has an air of class — I’d want to see how she laughs, and plays, and talks: whether she enjoys talking to her husband or not. Whether she looks up to him or scolds him when he gets home.

I’d also want to see his kids. I’d want to see if he has any, first: this would prove whether he carries the life force or if he’s a dead end on purpose: no point in going to anyone who unironically uses the term “dog mom.” I’d want to see whether they respect him or not, whether they love him or not — whether his children run up to him when he comes home, and whether his teenagers ask him questions. And I’d look to see whether they listen.

I’d check to see how his children behave: not whether they’re “good,” in the traditional sense — sitting quiet at the dinner table, etc — but how they approach life: whether as a process of trial and growth, or as a series of ironclad rules, or as a desperate fight of good against evil. I’d check to see how much TV they watch, and what kind, and whether they have Ipads or smart phones and how exactly they use them. I’d look to see how they eat, and sleep, and whether they read — and what kind of vibe their music gives off.

Then I'd take a look at the man.

Here’s a much bigger endeavor, because the man himself I would have to get closer to. I’d want to know how he eats, and sleeps, what he reads, and watches and listens to, of course; but more than this I’d want to know whether he prays and how; what he thinks about first thing in the morning; what he dreams about at night — I’d want to know whether he believes in God and the afterlife, whether he’s a grateful person or takes things for granted, whether he agonizes over his sins or just takes them as a sign he needs to do better. Or both.

I’d want to know what he’s sorry for this last day and what he’s proud of himself for too. I’d want to know what he thinks about during his off-time: whether he’s happy at home or he dreams all the time about going to Tahiti. I'd want to know whether he loves his job or hates it — how his face looks on Monday, particularly. I’d want to know what he thinks about drinking and doing acid; whether he likes Joe Biden and Kamala; whether he thinks men can turn into women. Whether he thinks everybody is racist, or he just blames white people for it. Whether a man should be ready to go to war, or whether he thinks life is just a business. Also, whether he thinks trials are meant to be endured in general, or to be fixed.

I would check to see if he’s fat or fit. I would check his testosterone levels and size up his jawline and chest. At the risk of looking gay I'd want to have a look at his legs. I’d see if he has a twinkle in his eye or if he always looks tired. I would want to know if he has sex with his wife or if he gets off to pornography. I would want to know not how his parents treated him, but how he treats his parents. I would want to know whether women like him and want to get closer, or whether they avoid him because he gives them a bad vibe. And I’d want to see his idea of a good breakfast.

I’d want to know all these things — to get up close and personal with the man; to dissect his lifestyle and judge the outcome; to catch a strong whiff of his philosophy and his religion; to ask him things that would make him uncomfortable; to comb his brain for the orthodox and heretical; to see how much of him is actually him, and how much of it he’s just parroting.

In other words, to trust a man with my mind I’d have to be his psychologist first; and second, I would have to pronounce him healthy. But I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. Quite frankly it would take too much time, and I don’t think he’d ever be willing to pay me for it.

Yours,

-J

P.S. The big irony of this essay is that after writing it, I realized I do know therapists — two of them, in fact — who I’d trust with my mind. Both of them are smart, and fit, and admirable: two genuine children of God whose families are intact and flourishing. They're both educated and sportsmanlike. They each run a good ship. Both men are upwardly mobile in business and spirit: constant learners who've been growing, and will continue to grow, until God puts them into the dirt.

But I work with one of them, and the other one goes to my church: two places I’d rather die than spill the beans. It would be safer to get new girlfriends on the clock than to have a single therapist at either. The sins of my hands and my mouth are too obvious to confess, like the sun and the moon. The sins of my mind are like the stars: beyond the possibility of counting, and well-hidden from the big city. Plus I wouldn’t even confess them to a priest. By the time I’d get to him I’d forget half of them, and the big ones that stand out to me, north stars I can see from every angle and valley, illuminating my character (or maybe the lack thereof), are too embarrassing to say out loud. So I confess them only to God.

*My five favorite philosophers are Schopenhauer, Chesterton, Ayn Rand, Sam Johnson, and Montaigne — not in any particular order here. The reason I bring them up is because psychology, a profession that deals with the slipperiest part of a man — what he thinks, why he feels that way, and how he should live — covers almost exactly the same ground philosophy does. And the five philosophers above disagree with each other just as much as the big psychologists do.

Above I mentioned Ayn Rand, who believed life is hard, and a man is only as good as what he earns. This means many of us don't deserve to be happy. Schopenhauer, the king of pessimism, believed that life is pain and people are a pain in the ass — and the best you can do is try to keep yourself busy and try to avoid both. Chesterton believed that in order to go forward we’d have to go backward: that the best things had already been delivered by The God Man and the Apostles, and that we didn't have to invent them: we had only to reclaim them. He thus believed in the Image of God and dignity of man — the traditions of the church and the importance of common sense.

Sam Johnson was halfway between a wise old pagan and an Anglican: he preached happiness through practicing the virtues, and recommended a heavy dose of God and remembering your mortality. Montaigne, probably the most “me” of all these, saw man as a malleable and growing being, prone to error. He saw that you could be wise and still end up in a train wreck due to bad timing. And he saw life as an art-form to be tasted and judged: a learning process where only the most manly and liberal minds could have fun — not as a classroom, or a monastery, or a business. He saw it as more of a lab and a gymnasium.

These teachers' vibes are all so different and all so true in their own way that I refuse to pick any of them above the rest. And the same goes for psychology. Whether you focus on

1. the legacy of your parents,

2. or of natural selection,

3. or the environment you grew up in,

4. or you emphasize your hormones,

5. or your dreams and your nightmares,

6. or how your brain is hard-wired

— how much others contribute to you and whether or not you contribute to others — whether you’re a criminal or whether you're a victim — whether to condemn sin or practice radical acceptance — each psychologist blends these in his own way, as he was born to do, and each comes out with a different method — and thus his own personal solution. Thus as I said above, the big question isn’t what stock you put in psychology, but what stock you put in your personal psychologist.

So I totally sidestep the whole question. I ask myself which psychological school he admires and where he got his degree, of course. But even more than this I ask myself whether I want to be like him — and whether or not he strikes me as happy.

***Is there a difference between a loser and a screw-up? Yes. The loser is a failure because he either has bogus dreams or he can’t rise up to normal ones. A man can be a success and be flipping burgers at McDonalds — so long as he’s happy, and healthy, and growing, and has good relationships. Being a loser isn’t about how little you earn; it’s about how little you win. And it’s in the pain in your eyes because you’re frustrated you’re not living. The mark of a true loser is being a bore and a bummer. The dreams he doesn't live up to aren't his parents' or society's, necessarily: they are his own.

A screw-up, on the other hand, is somebody who destroys things. He doesn’t just bum rides from his sister because he doesn’t have a car: he gets trashed and crashes his sister’s car. A screw-up is a coworker who embarrasses you in front of the customers. He won’t show up on time, and he's always begging for money, and he calls you to bail him out of jail. He can't convince anyone to marry him, so he keeps conning new lovers on random dating apps well into his 40s.

His short-ticket to joy is chemical, not spiritual. His own brain rejects him, so he re-wires it temporarily because he needs (badly) to fool it. Thus he enjoys booze to shut his mind up, or pain-killers; he loves uppers to make up for bad self-care, and anxiety meds to help him cope, and to sleep. He has no idea how to direct his mind, or to where, so he has to shut it off, or bend it around, or fill it up with noise. He complains about anxiety because he’s worried about the repercussions of his behavior; and he complains about depression because he never loved anybody enough to get out of bed for them.

A bad psychologist will never tell these people to shape up or get hanged. A true loser or a screw-up would never listen if he did — hence the business models that focus on acceptance and pay out handsomely regardless of the outcome. The chief element missing in both teacher and student here is a manly belief in responsibility. Both are placing blame on anything but your agency, your lifestyle, your diet, your mindset. Both, like the leftist, are more content with making you a victim. Neither of them is worthy of success or anything bordering on happiness.

A bad psychologist says, poor thing! Are you okay?

A great psychologist says, man up! Take charge of your life!