What Elayne Clift describes [“A worrying update,” Column, Jan. 21] is far from a new problem.
Many years ago, as a young housewife and mother, I went to a psychiatrist. Within a few minutes of talking to him, I realized the the vast difference between us.
I expected information and advice, and he expected me to turn over my life to him and give him unlimited power to label me with a life-altering diagnosis. The only “help” he had was to give me mind-deadening drugs and/or put me in a mental institution.
I left his office and never went back.
I struggled through my problems by myself and, yes, it was hard and scary. But it was better than the alternative, and I succeeded.
I have continued to lead a normal life to this day, and I have never regretted that decision.