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There I was, in November 2015, on the edge of my couch with my jaw dropped, watching Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief, a film by Alex Gibney, and utterly transfixed by a woman on the screen named Spanky.
 "It's such a hard thing when you do wake up," she said, "to go, Oh my God, because you have this wave of regret. I just started to think that maybe me entire life has been a lie."
I rewound, replayed, and repeated what she said, and then I recorded her words, and transcribed them, and read them over and over until they'd sunk in. I thought about how, in spite of the many obvious differences between the institutions of Scientology and psychiatry—and ironically, considering how often I saw anyone critical of psychiatry labeled as a Scientologist, given the church's historically antipsychiatry stance—the potent tenets underpinning each were eerily similar: Turn yourself over to these people who say they have answers to your pain and struggle. Unquestioningly accept whatever they tell you to do, because they know you better than you know yourself. Salvation can be yours, but only if you comply.
For years, I'd been devouring mental illness memoirs in the hope that, in at least one of them, I'd see my story. But I hadn't yet, which was baffling, because I knew there were thousands of others who'd rejected their diagnoses and come off their meds as I had. The stories I'd found in bookstores were most often about accepting a diagnosis, finding the right treatment, fighting the stigma of being sick, figuring out how to manage life with mental illness. Where did the experiences of those of us who'd decided to headin the opposite direction fit?
Gibney's documentary was what I'd been looking for. My experiences had never been about illness, health, or recovery. I, like so many fellow ex-patients, had surrendered my personal agency, misplaced my faith, and been indoctrinated into a compelling ideology. I could see myself so clearly in Spanky's testimony: the regret that comes from realizing your fear and self-doubt led you to comply with an institutional authority that took you far away from who you truly were. She was struggling to understand how she ever could have had such unquestioning trust in Scientology's false promises. I was struggling to understand how I'd ever grown so distrustful of myself that I was willing to turn my identity, my biochemistry, and my life over to the mental health industry.
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December 10, 2015
Julia Weinberg, MD
XXXXXXXXXX
Cambridge, MA XXXXX
Dear Dr. Weinberg,
I hope all is well, and that your family is happy and healthy. I've tried reaching out a couple of times—by e-mail, by voicemail, and by a letter I'm not sure you receieved—so I figured I'd drop this by your mailbox in the chance that it might reach you.
As you might now know from my previous messages, I'm writing to ask for a complete copy of my records from you during the years we worked together, including therapy notes and medication records. I want to assure you that this request arises from only good will, and that, to this day, I hold the same respect and gratitude for our time together that I've always held.
The primary reason I'm seeking my medical records—I should say that I'm doing this for all of my past treatment beginning at the age of thirteen—is to try to piece together and make sense of what happened to me during all those years I was a patient. It also feels symbolically important to have a copy of all of my records, like I'm finally fully "owning" myself and my past.
I hope you understand and will be supportive and in alignment with this request. I'd be happy to talk further with you, as well, if that would be helpful. Please do reply to me by e-mail or letter within thirty days of receiving this, and let me know when and how I can obtain my records.
Kindest regards,
Laura
It was cold and dark out when I walked down Weinberg's private lane to hand-deliver my letter. Ahead of me, a bundled-up figure walking what looked like a springer spaniel.
"Dr. Weinberg?"
"Yes?" A hesitant reply.
"It's Laura...Laura Delano.
She instantly knew why I was there. "Oh, hi, yes, hi, I know you've been trying to reach me." Her anxiety was palpable.
"Can I give you a hug?" I blurted the question out before I had the chance to stop myself. We held each other for a moment as the dog pulled at her arm. I told her that I wasn't angry or out for vengeance. "The letter explains everything," I said. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd have a read and let me know when we can meet."
Yes, I will. We'll of course meet. Can you call me in mid-January? It's quite busy right now with the holidays. We'll schedule a time then, okay?" I nodded. "You're doing well, I take it?" She hesitated before continuing in a confessional tone, "You know, I've read some of your blog."
I had suspected as much, given her avoidance of me. We chatted for a few more minutes as I stroked her dog's coat. "How's your son's hockey?" I inquired.
"Oh, it's going very well. He's playing D3 next fall." I nodded, said how great it was to hear. "Well, I should get back inside."
"Great. Please do read the letter when you can—really, it'll put you at ease. And I'll call you in January. Have a nice holiday with your family."
It wasn't until I was back in the driver's seat of my car that I realized I'd been holding my breath.
It took several more voicemails plus a strongly worded letter sent on my behalf by a laywer friend before Weignberg finally set a time for us to meet. Four months after I hand-delivered that letter, and five years since I'd last been her patient, I sat in her waiting room. There was the sound of her heels on the slate sidewalk, the twist of the door handle, the suck of air, the pad of feet up the stairs. The second I saw her, I got teary-eyed, which I hadn't been expecting.
Weinberg sat in a different chair than she used to, one next to me rather than across the room. The face of the clock on the table between us was carefully angled toward her. As soon as I settled into my seat, she dove right into a monologue about our work together: what our goals had been, the big topics and themes we'd focused on over the years, the main challenges of mine that we'd grappled with together, the frequency of our meetings, the time surrounding my suicide. She left no space for me to chime in.
I had intended to ask if I could record our conversation—in preparation for the meeting, I'd discovered that Massachusetts has a two-party consent law—but she'd launched so quickly into talking that I'd had no change. I didn't even look down at the list of questions I'd brought, especially the one I'd starred and boxed: I've been off my meds for nearly six years now and I've never felt more alive, more connected to myself, more capable. What do you make of this, given that I met the criteria for bipolar disorder, that I wasn't misdiagnosed?
For the entire hour, she dominated the room. Words gushed from her. She'd clearly gone to great lengths preparing this case she was now making that during our time together, she had worked hard, so hard, to help me.
I was irritated at first but took some slow breaths, felt my feet on the floor, my body in the seat. I lifted my chin, closed my eyes for a moment, and was next overtaken by an unexpected compassion. I looked into her eyes, which only occasionally looked back at me, and sensed it wasn't the content of her rambling that was important to focus on but what sat beneath it: I didn't mean to hurt you, she was really saying. I was doing the best I could. We did the best we could, together. Please don't be angry with me. I suddenly felt compelled to understand her, to step into her shoes and see myself through her eyes, with all her years of education and training and career building shaping her perceptions. It dawned on my that I didn't need her to understand me, or even see me at all in the life I was now living. What she thought about me and my history was no longer relevant for me.
Before we said goodbye, she presented me with a thin manila envelope. "This is a summary of our work together," she said. "Thanks for being patient." She offered to meet again once I'd had a chance to take a look. I thanked her and said I'd be in touch.
At home, I slipped the envelope into a storage box, where it would sit, unopened, for many years.
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