…”my receptionist. She isn’t licensed. She isn’t even trained.”
I sat down on my kitchen floor. I had told that woman things I’d never told anyone. I’d described the worst nights of my life. And she’d told me I was lazy.
Dr. Carol Benson explained, in a rush, that her practice had become overbooked. To keep billing insurance for more sessions, she let her office manager, Tina, see “simple cases” under Dr. Benson’s name while she took the complicated ones. Tina had no qualifications at all. Dr. Benson signed the notes afterward without reading them. My file existed because the insurance company required one.
“If the board sees your file,” she said, “they’ll know.”
“Then they’ll know,” I said, and I hung up.
I called the licensing board that afternoon. My new therapist, Dr. Alvarez, helped me write a statement. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but she reminded me that depression had told me for two years that my voice didn’t matter. This was a chance to prove it wrong.
The board’s investigation found eleven other patients who had been seen by Tina. Several had been given dangerous advice. One had been told to stop taking prescribed medication. The insurance company launched its own fraud investigation.
Dr. Benson’s license was revoked. She and Tina were charged with insurance fraud and practicing without a license. At the hearing, I met two of the other patients. One of them, a man in his fifties, hugged me and said my statement gave him the courage to file his.
I’m still in therapy with Dr. Alvarez. Some weeks are hard, and that’s okay. I’ve started painting again, something I hadn’t touched in years. Last month, I volunteered at a mental health awareness event and spoke for five minutes about how to check whether a therapist is licensed. Five minutes doesn’t sound like much. But two years ago, I couldn’t get out of bed.
If anyone ever tells you your depression is laziness, they’re wrong. Find someone who will listen. You deserve real help.
