Recently, I learned that when I left the treatment center I had been attending, one of the doctors there contacted the VA about me. I don’t know the full details, and I don’t need to—what I did hear made it clear they were attempting to portray me as someone who couldn’t care for myself or set boundaries.
What makes that claim especially ironic is that my decision to leave was because my boundaries were repeatedly crossed. One of the clearest examples was the “quiet eating” rule: thirty minutes of forced silence while many clients finished their meal in minutes, then slept or snored through the rest of the time. Being required to sit quietly through loud breathing, gurgling, and snoring was overwhelming and counter-therapeutic. Calling this a “food exercise” never made sense, and when I spoke up about how it affected me, it wasn’t taken seriously. Instead, we were told to confront each other directly—putting the burden on clients rather than on the staff guiding them.
Then there was the accusation that I came and went as I pleased. That simply isn’t true. My schedule—Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday—was set by the therapist, not by me. The one one-on-one session I missed was because of a seizure. Meanwhile, several of my one-on-one sessions were canceled by the therapist, including the day I chose to leave.
But what ultimately confirmed my decision was what happened afterward. For a place that claimed to worry about my wellbeing, not a single person contacted me after I walked out—not even the doctor who later felt the need to call the VA. That silence said everything. It also highlighted something I had already started to notice: a pattern in how long-term clients were treated. Some individuals had been there for years, saying very little in group yet feeling unable to leave because of fears around benefits, education, or employment (and yes, the ethics of that are worth questioning). When you keep clients immersed in their trauma five days a week with no respite, it doesn’t create empowerment. It creates dependency. In the end, many have simply traded one controlling relationship for another.
That was the opposite of what I needed. I want to stop hiding. I want real connections—with people, with the world, with life—not an environment where I’m managed instead of supported.
The idea that I “couldn’t set boundaries” is the biggest falsehood of all. The truth is simple: I did set a boundary, and I wasn’t willing to be controlled. That’s why I walked out. That’s also why no one called afterward—because they knew I wasn’t someone they could pressure or guilt into staying.
Despite all of this, I’m grateful for what leaving taught me. It reminded me that I am not a prisoner—not to past relationships, not to authority figures, not to old patterns, and certainly not to quietly eating turkey sausage while pretending snoring is therapeutic. This isn’t me diverting to others; this is me stating my boundary. The uneven enforcement of rules and expectations made that boundary necessary.
I’m choosing a life where I can breathe, set boundaries, and move forward on my own terms.