Colonial Behavioral Health

“Most of the staff is nice. Especially pharmacy and front desk. Tiffany is the worst therapist. Don’t go to her if you want someone caring. One of the case managers left and didn’t have any follow up care for me planned.”

“Welcome, traveler. You have arrived at the Colonial Williamsburg branch of the Corporatist Church of Twelve-Steppin’ Je$u$™, where we combine the comforting warmth of a quasi-religious institution with the operational elegance of a mid-tier call center that just discovered “behavioral health” is a growth market. Our motto—recited softly while your clipboard is replenished—remains: “Humanitatem ex eo quod homo est auferimus.” Before we begin: we do not have patients. We have customers joining the flock, each blessed with a unique Customer Identification Number and a shared destiny: to be processed with dignity, which we define as compliance achieved without visible screaming. What to expect at intake: You will be greeted by our Intake Facilitators, who are trained by AI—and, in a thrilling preview of the future, soon to be replaced by it. Until the full transition occurs, the humans will provide that nostalgic “I’m sorry, the system won’t let me” ambiance—because the system, like God, moves in mysterious dropdown menus. You may notice a certain… ceremonial quality to the process. This is intentional. Our church is built on a simple three-step principle—both a doctrine and a business model: 1. Nonconformity (of any kind) is a warning sign. 2. Warning signs provide authority for action. 3. Action is its own justification. This is the sacred trinity. And yes, we can detect nonconformity in at least seven different ways before you’ve finished spelling your last name. Bonus features for our valued customers: Security guards! Other places might treat the presence of security as a sign of systemic failure, or evidence that the environment is inherently stressful. Not here. Here, it’s a premium amenity—a visible reminder that your safety matters, along with the safety of the building, the furniture, and most importantly, the liability envelope around the entire operation. Endless forms! Think of them as devotional texts. Each signature is a small sacrament. Each checkbox is a confession. Each initial is a reaffirmation that you understand: You are consenting to the process, which is separate from the outcome, which is separate from anything we’re required to do if the outcome doesn’t occur. Your lived experience will be received respectfully, categorized promptly, and archived forever. Any mention of context—trauma, housing stress, medical complexity, neurodivergence, poverty, stigma—will be appreciated, noted, and then placed gently into the bin labeled “Nonclinical Narrative (Do Not Operationalize)”. A brief statement of faith: We believe in recovery, of course. We also believe in metrics, policy, and the spiritual power of a standardized script spoken with just enough compassion to keep the complaint ratio within acceptable limits. If at any point you feel confused, overwhelmed, or treated like a walking exception to a rule you haven’t seen yet—congratulations. That’s not a bug. That’s the onboarding experience. Now please take a seat, Customer. The flock is waiting. The system is warming up. And somewhere, quietly, an algorithm is practicing your name.”

“They are fraudulent. I was seen once in a telehealth intake and the counselor missed the appointment, when I tried to call and find out why the counselor missed the appointment. I never heard from anyone again. Now 4 years later they garnished my state tax refund for their fee and I never received a bill in 4 years. As a behavioral health practitioner, this is fraud. I will be reporting them”

“I found the therapist here to be very supportive and kind. When I had an issue with scheduling due to work they were more than happy to help me set up a new appointment. When I spoke to a psychiatrist it was rough for the first session but afterwords he did a lot to help me figure out what I needed.”