The Heroin Of Healing

Therapy sells healing

like churches sell salvation —

offering confessions

at a premium

with no guarantees

and plenty of guilt.

You sit across from someone

who doesn’t know your life

but knows your labels.

Someone who lost their own mirror

but gets paid

to straighten yours.

They don’t answer questions —

they reflect them.

Like godmen do.

Not because it's wise —

because they don’t have answers.

You call it holding space.

I call it

expensive permission

to fall apart

with designer interiors.

Therapy has become

the opium of the articulate —

neatly packaged insight

for the overthinking narcissist,

where pain is rehearsed

like monologue

and recovery’s a recurring attempt, 

no deadlines, no appraisals.

You don’t want clarity.

You want headspace.

You want to bleed

in erudite phrases

and call it evolution.

You don’t sit with pain —

you outsource it.

You rent catharsis

one hour at a time.

You wear your diagnosis

like gourmet guilt.

You collect disorders

like passport stamps.

Not to heal —

to belong.

You weren’t taught to survive pain.

You were taught to wrap it better.

Your therapist doesn’t know

if you want truth

or just someone to talk to

because friends are unpaid

and mirrors too honest.

They treat sadness

like sin,

and introspection

like subscription.

They sell stillness

like supplements —

one pill per wound,

one session per scar,

until your hurt

has its own calendar.

You say “mental health matters”

but treat it like retail.

Another label to hide behind.

Another reason to not look inward.

You want therapy

to rewrite your story.

But forget —

healing isn’t ghostwriting.

It’s facing the chapter

you never wanted to read aloud.

And dating?

Welcome to the 21st century —

where a therapy certificate

is your condom for the soul.

Say no to the unhealed.

Say yes to trauma-informed copycats.

Healing isn't a process anymore —

it's a benchmark to fuck.

Therapy was meant to be

as basic as stitches,

as standard as general medicine.

But now?

It sells like tank tops and high heels —

a performative accessory

for those willing to fake fractures

just to be seen limping.

Because attention

is the new opiate.

And nothing gets you attention

like a well-lit breakdown.

They don’t want truth.

They want sympathy

disguised as insight,

they want panic

to rhyme with poetry.

Therapists —

they’re priests, 

only better clothed.

Peddling answers

wrapped in questions,

selling stillness

to a generation

that confuses silence

for sickness.

They hand out hope

like flyers.

But false hope?

That cuts deeper than trauma.

And nobody warns you

how brutal misdiagnosis feels

until you’re medicated

for what was just

being human.

But that’s the game —

take what hurts,

give it a name,

charge by the hour,

and call it care.

Healing was never

meant to be fashionable.

And truth?

It was never meant

to be therapeutic.

It's hard to tell these days

if it's therapy you need

or a tight slap across your face

to wake the fuck up to reality.