Clinical Arrogance: A Disease

The following will be an account of an appointment I had today, from my perspective, which is the perspective of a student of psychiatry in the hands of, and at the mercy of, a psychiatrist of 15+ years.

Disclaimer/ThingsYouShouldn’tBitchAtMeAbout: 1) If you feel any of the following medications actually help you, wonderful; what I say in regards to them has no reflection on you, so don’t act like I should take them just because you do. 2) If you feel any of the following diagnoses actually revolutionized your life, I am genuinely happy for you; what I say in regards to them has no reflection on you, so don’t act like I should accept them just because you do. And last but not least, 3) Do not waste your typing breath telling me “all psychiatrists aren’t like that” because I’m very, very aware of this. This will be an account of one who is not so keen on her own arrogance.

Disclaimer Part 2: If you feel offended by anything I said above, for God’s sake, you probably will have trouble getting through my blog.

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*Brushes off hands* Alright. We’re all on the same page? Deep breath. Let’s take a mindfulness observation moment together: pick a natural object around you. That could be a flower, an insect, the clouds, e.t.c and focus only on that object. Watch it for a minute or two, noticing only the object and not the environment around it, as if you’re watching it for the first time. Let yourself be fully immersed in the visual stimulus of that object, connect with its energy, and breathe.

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Wonderful.

Now that you’re calm, I’m calm, and everything is alright, let’s together explore the very question I find myself plagued with on a daily basis: why do some people exist at all? Why? To fuck with you? To feed their ego? To sit back in their chair, roll in the dough, and not give two shits who they affect? Is that it? Is that what it is?

I’m going to need a lot of mindfulness moments today.

This new psychiatrist I see gave me weird vibes from the moment she placed a diagnostic PTSD code (among two others) on my invoice sheet within ten minutes of meeting me. This was my second visit with her today, and I’m done. Yep, you heard me. I’m done.

Her ears have bricks in them. They’re filled with cement. She hears her own thoughts very, very clearly, and values her opinion like any confident person does. Unlike what other confident people do, she does not seem to value other’s opinions very well.

First of all, let’s talk about the service codes.

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E.t.c, E.t.c, you get the point.

Let’s talk about the fact that, one, I got charged with the 99213: basically, a level three office visit. For those of you with insurance in the U.S, you probably don’t see these things. I don’t have insurance and pay out of pocket, so I do. I’m okay with getting charged as an outpatient office visit; that was 125 dollars in itself.

She charged 25 dollars under a 90836. It’s an add on code under the 90834 code. Essentially, the 90836 is for is individual “psychotherapy” that occurred during the visit that was “insight orientated, behavior modifying, and/or supportive” if the visit is 38-45 minutes.

I paid a doctor 25 dollars to be supportive towards me for 30 minutes. The kicker? She wasn’t even that supportive. In fact, half the time she didn’t know what to say. In fact, half the time she just spewed useless information at me. Rather than taking a moment to relate or acknowledge some difficulties in my house hold, she told me my father could easily be put in a nursing home if he has insurance.

Why “psychotherapy” or “insight” or “support” isn’t included in the fucking OFFICE VISIT of a PSYCHIATRIST, I will never know. I understand they are technically “doctors”. I understand their main gig is (but shouldn’t be) medication. However, I’ve gotten better support/empathy talks from a general practitioner and they didn’t charge me shit.

20662857-greedy-rich-doctor-with-stethoscope-switchblade-money-and-glasseSeems like a good money grabbing scheme to me. No wonder she kept me fucking talk. She needed to hit that time limit. I see the game, bitch.

Which, technically, she didn’t even hit the time limit. My appointment was at three. I was at my car door at three-thirty-seven. That’s 37 minutes bitch, not 38, I want my fucking 25 dollars back. 

Like I don’t know diagnostic codes. Like I don’t know service codes. Give me a break. The more diagnoses you get and the more service codes listed on your invoice, the higher your price is going to be (if you pay out of pocket), and the better your insurance company loves you (if you have insurance), and the more regular your visits will be with your psychiatrist. I received three diagnoses in about ten or fifteen minutes in my first visit with her a few weeks ago, none of which she told me about. She just kind of wrote the diagnostic codes and said nothing on them.

Clinical arrogance is a disease. 

Alright. Still breathing? Take a mindfulness moment if you need one, I won’t mind. Go ahead. Go right ahead.

I’ll wait.

. . .

. .

.

Oh good, you’re back, I was getting worried.

As you remember, last time she tried placing me under the restraint of five different medications within about twenty to thirty minutes: Seroquel, Effexor, Praoxin, Propranolol, and Ativan. I took the Effexor which helps greatly with my energy and apathy issues. I told her no on everything else.

She has it stuck in her head I have performance anxiety. I kept saying I didn’t. None of what I describe is ever related to that. I reiterated myself today. I, once again, rejected all the medications and yet as I look down on my prescription list, I see very evidently the Propranolol prescription underneath the Effexor dosage raise.

She said she was going to give it to me anyway. And she put it on the list.

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At this point, I was done.

There were some things I wanted to ask her opinion on but the moment the medication pushing came, and the moment she completely invalidated every word I said, I knew I would either get five more diagnoses and six more medications, or I wouldn’t be heard, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.

I will say this once more: Clinical arrogance is a disease.  

I spoke a bit about my sensory issues. I couldn’t explain what I really experienced with them (how overwhelmingly strong they are, and how they keep me from functioning sometimes) before she interrupted me and asked if I ever thought I had ADHD. I said very flatly, NO. She asked me if I had trouble focusing and concentrating. I said yes–when I’m being overstimulated, yes, when I live in a hostile environment at home, yes, when I’m fatigued and exhausted all the time, YES. I gave her environmental reasons for two things she tried pinning on biology. 

She said nothing after that. She said nothing until she got on her computer, went through my files, noticed that I have a lot of fatigue issues, and said “well, stimulants also help with energy sometimes. People also sometimes feel more relaxed with them. Would you like to try Ritalin?”

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NO BITCH, would you like to try my FIST in your MOUTH? Because it’s fucking HEADING THERE. 

I said, once again, NO. 

And that was the end of that.

Don’t ever let a health professional run you. You run yourself. You know what bothers you and what doesn’t. You know how your environment contributes to your mental health and how it doesn’t. If you let someone ELSE start giving you reasons for your behavior, without you first reflecting on yourself, THAT’S when you’re no longer in control of your own treatment.

The funny thing is, the two major things that have really been bothering me, my anxiety/thoughts and my paranoia, are the very two things I didn’t get one moment to speak about in between her ramblings. 

I’m not going back.

Rambling . . . Rambles

They have smart watches for kids now? Is that cute or fucking weird? Anyone?

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Here, rather than monitoring our kid’s time on the tablet, let’s put a miniature one on their wrist so they never pay attention to anyone or anything in the outside world again, and then complain to a psychologist when our kid doesn’t pay attention in class! Yay! We’re SMART.

SmartWatches: Making Kids Smarterer. One watch at a time. 

ADHD is on the rise, remember? It’s not ever related to parents’ miscommunication with their children, or less activity in the day, or excessive technological usage, or complete and utter mis-diagnosis. Nope. These kids are SICK. Everyone panic! If they cough on you, you’ll get the ADHD!

Well, if anyone coughs on me I’ll punch them in their mouth because that’s called being rude. I don’t want your Ebola-ass, Polio-ass, non-vaccinated-ass, halitosis-stankin’-ass germs all over my skin. Makes me itchy just thinking about it.

I feel like verbally ripping some people to shreds. I wish Alex Gorsky were back in the news again, I would love ripping him a new one again. I could get political, but honestly I don’t care one ounce anymore about who wins this election. The only proposition I even feel like voting for is the one about making porn companies provide and require porn stars wear condoms. That’s literally all I care about this election year.

I spent another night in mental turmoil in my dreams with disembodied voices and then a bunch of arguing. If I have to go through this shit again tonight I’m probably going to go to work tomorrow slightly off my rocker. My eyelids will be twitching, my eyebrows will be different colors, my clothes won’t match, and I’ll speak in tongues and tell everyone the devil has control over me.

Yeah, that’s great. Go into a house where people feel the devil steals words from their head and claim you’re the devil. That’s helping the community. Great job. Much support. Wow.

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My head is also throbbing and I’m being a class A procrastinator. I told myself after this blog post I will begin the horror that is the mountain of homework I’ve let build up because today I have a bit more energy and that’s a good thing. But these headaches have to go. I have a feeling these are related to the Effexor. If so, this shit is going to have to go. I feel I’ve had headaches steady every day for the last week .

What I don’t want is another SSRI. I don’t mind SNRI’s, this has actually been a much more pleasant experience; it’s even tamed my appetite. However, this one side effect of the headaches–Christ. I can’t take it. I can’t focus still, and with my head pounding I can’t focus even harder.

I also think I’ve been eating less. That might contribute as well. I just don’t find myself interested in that kind of activity unless it’s the end of the day and my stomach rumbles and I realize, well, shit. I’d rather kick ass in Syndicate than eat food.

Another dissatisfying side effect: twitches and teeth clenching. My boyfriend informed me the other night what when I sleep I’m twitching excessively. That could be due to fatigue, but it’s also a known side effect of Effexor. He said it was freaking him out a little. I wasn’t full on convulsing according to him, so it probably wasn’t some kind of freakish sleep seizure, but it might contribute to my restlessness during the night. If it continues to that extent, I should probably get a sleep study.

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The teeth clenching bullshit started with Lexapro. It has not ended, even though I haven’t touched an SSRI for four years. But an SNRI is essentially a Serotonin Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitor, so serotonin is involved. I’ve noticed my teeth clenching has gotten significantly worse than usual. My gums are throbbing and my teeth are screaming and it takes my mouth and jaw being in pain for me to realize I’m clenching them. Then I have to open my mouth consciously and keep it open until I forget about it again and the teeth clench once more. Mouth guards are about forty to fifty dollars here. I don’t think so.

She gave me the option of antipsychotics but my reservations are strong. They are incredibly strong. They’re stronger than the bond between the world’s strongest magnet and the worlds smallest piece of metal.

She has reservations too. I could see them. She has reservations about what actually goes on in my brain. I felt myself rambling last month and I heard the things coming out of my mouth and I saw the look on her face, the look I once caught myself giving to people at work when I first started. It’s the look of clinical concern all psychologists and psychiatrist are trained to give when someone starts talking about unrealities.

Clinical concern versus genuine concern are two different things. With genuine concern you’re focused on the person. With clinical concern you’re flipping through the DSM in your head. I’ve experienced both. I lean more towards genuine concern after working at Second Story for the last five months. It helps build a connection much easier. Clinical concern gets you nowhere.

That being said, I could see her judging whether she should chalk up what I spoke about to anxiety or something else. She tried slipping the antipsychotics into my prescription print out for a reason, though. She TRIED. Very HARD. I’m not falling for it. The thing about someone who is always suspicious is that when it comes to people trying to control us, our automatic reaction is to push away. Sometimes that saves us.

I’ve been rambling and procrastinating for too long. In conclusion: smart watches for kids is fucking stupid, headaches hurt my brain, and anyone else who suggests antipsychotics can take a big load of Thorazine right up their ass.

I said something similar before I went to my last psychiatrist appointment, and somehow I walked out with three diagnoses and a prescription. This time I’ll probably walk out with a max dose of Haldol, a lobotomy and four more diagnoses’.

Much optimism. Great Positivity. Wow.

 

It’s Fucking Raw!

I’m about 300% done.

With what, you ask?

With the internet. Not the trolls (South park is taking care of that for me), not the idiots who start rants on social media about things they don’t understand, and certainly not the eleven year olds posting sexy pictures of themselves captioned “ftw, keep it 100, stfu biatches, snort weed hoe”.

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She’s not 12, calm the fuck down.

I’m simply done with internet connections.

It took about twenty minutes for me to load this page. I paid seven dollars for this day of wifi connectivity and this is the result I get?

“Just sign up with an internet company.”

Easy for you to say, you probably have enough money to pay an internet company. I’m about to get fifty frappe’s from Starbucks and start my ass on some Nikola Tesla shit. Resurrect Wardenclyffe for some free Wifi and energy.

I mean, does anyone ever think about this? How can they claim dibs on wifi if it’s everywhere? How can you claim dibs on energy when it is literally everywhere? It can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed. Don’t tell me PG&E is the only way you can power a fucking light bulb because I’ll slap you so hard with some science you’ll be dropping chemistry test tubes out your ass for a month.

There has to be a way you can create something that receives a signal without you having to saw off your leg and fuck the manager of Comcast while pretending he’s “Daddy” and you’re his “little girl”.

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Fuck Comcast with a capital F.

Could this rant be a result of my nerves over my psychiatrist appointment on Monday or the mountain of math homework I’ve been staring at but not touching, or the frustration I feel over my tendency to avoid every single thing that overwhelms me (which turns out to be everything)? You tell me, smart guy.

Oh God, I just assumed your gender, oh fuck me, send out the killer clowns and put on your metal chastity belts before Donald Trump grabs your cooch and Clinton breaks into your house and deletes your entire gmail history.

2016 in one sentence.

Fuck off.

My goal in life is to be the Gordon Ramsay of the psychiatric world. Picture this:

[Enter]: three residents, two with goofy grins on their faces and one with a patented “I’m going to be a doctor next year” flat-line face. They all have their clipboards clutched to their chest like it’s the first day of class and they don’t want anyone to see how much they suck at math. I am wheeled in on a throne made of previous resident’s broken dreams and souls with four angels with wings of solid gold pushing me along. The wheels of the throne are translucent and easily visible is the bubbling blood of my enemies; my source of energy. I puff generously on a Cuban cigar  I made a resident crawl through Cuban jungles to get.

Me: Repeat my motto!

Them: People not products.

Me: Again!

Them: People not products

Me: WITH ENTHUSIASM!

Them (visibly shaken): People not products!

Me: Good. Better than yesterday; yesterday you were shit.

Resident 1: That’s a little harsh.

Me: What? What did you say? Hey–hey! Listen you fucking donkey, don’t tell me I’m harsh when you’re shit!

Resident 2 (under breath): a compliment would be nice once in a while

Me: You want a fucking compliment? I haven’t had to take your clipboard and shove it up your ass sideways yet! There’s your compliment. Hey–hey, did that hurt? Fucking sue me!

I’m sorry, I had to pause and ask myself what the fuck do I write about these days?  This is my personality, people. I should be on T.V making millions of dollars for insulting people. Think about how self-fulfilling that would be to know you are the one person with such great comebacks about dry camel asses and raw food that people hate you so much that they tune in and watch you every week. What a wonderful source of fuel for my shattered ego and what a wonderful cure for my crippling depression.

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My nerves are running rampant about this appointment. Meeting new people is one thing: meeting a new psychologist is another; meeting a new psychiatrist is ten times worse than both of the above. I’ve been fighting with myself over whether I would ever, ever, ever again in my life consider medication and although the dominant screech in my head is “what the fuck are you thinking you fucking psychopath, No!”, there’s a tiny voice somewhere hidden in the crevices of my brain matter saying “let’s get legally high”.

No, really it’s saying “do it.”

My problem is getting stuck in a cycle. My problem is 1) finding the words to explain myself and 2) explaining myself so well I went up getting thrown down the rabbit hole.

I have special names for things in psychology. Hospitals are called the Lions den because once you’re in there, you go by their rules.

aliceinwonderland-downtherabbithole-011The rabbit hole is the cycle of treatment people get stuck in, that I almost got stuck in once. The “take this medication, but it causes this so take this medication, but those side effects suck so take this one but now you can’t get off of them without horrible withdrawal or a psychotic break so I’ll just tell you that you might as well stay on them for the rest of your life” cycle.

I’m acutely aware that taking medication would mean my brain is forced to fight itself . Doctors call it “adjusting”. I don’t. Because it’s not your brain “adjusting”, it’s your brain constantly sending out more neurotransmitters to keep itself in homeostasis against the synthetic chemicals; that’s why you develop a tolerance–your brain finally reaches homeostasis once again and you don’t feel the effects of the medication anymore.

Until you quit it and suddenly your brain, which has started sending out huge amounts of transmitters to compensate and balance the other transmitters, sends out more than it needs because the chemical is now gone. That’s why you get withdrawal. That’s why alcoholics have seizures. That’s why many people who stop their medications have bad mental side effects.

I don’t have health insurance so what does any of this matter? Even if I wanted medication I wouldn’t get it. So, I guess . . .

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Internet is working now.

Incongruity Killed The Cat . . . And I Laughed.

You guys.

Incongruent fucking affect. 

A visual representation of my response:

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Because now it all makes sense. It makes sense why people give me the responses they do.

If your outward appearance doesn’t match your inner expression you might as well slap a mask on your face, pin the tail on a donkey and fire your mistress, am I right?

What does any of that mean? I have no idea.

That’s probably the feeling people get when they’re speaking with me and I’m laughing/smiling at something that, outwardly, I probably shouldn’t be. That’s probably the confusion I see on their face when I’m sitting there talking about something horrible that’s happened and I’m not getting the response from them I was hoping. You know, the consolation/it’ll be okay/come here let me take away the pain responses that many people get. Instead I get the “I’m not sure how to respond to this fucking wacko” expression.

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Precisely

I think it’s relatively common for people to hide how they really feel inside. We all have a “nervous laughter”, we all smile thinly and say “I’m fine” when we really want to take a knife to our throat. And I believe sometimes I do that, just like everyone else.

Then there are the times I don’t know I’m doing it and I walk away frustrated because these people were sitting here laughing at my pain–and I never thought to pay attention to the fact that I was also laughing.

On here I probably expressed how frustrated I am that I’m now out ten thousand dollars because of my mistake of not filing for financial aid. It’s something that causes me nightly anxiety and every time I think about it I want to kick myself in the metaphorical ball sack.

It’s something I expressed to someone at my job and after my bi-weekly therapy session today, and the concept of my affect and incongruity surfaced for the first time, I came to the sudden realization why people at my job and people in general get confused on how I really feel about things. Not only do I give cliche answers, some of which I steal verbatim from conversations I eavesdrop on because I don’t really know how to hold a normal conversation, but I’m always smiling. I smile about everything.

Literally. Even the guests at the house have noticed; they come up to me and say “I notice you’re always smiling, that’s really cool”.

“Yeah, someone stabbed my thigh and blew up my car then sent more death threats to my house” *cue smile*.

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At any rate, I understand why they give me confused looks when I say things like “yeah I have to pay my entire way, it really sucks, I’m extremely frustrated” nonchalantly and rather monotonous and then I smile and giggle.

I bring horrible things up and how I feel inside isn’t transferred to my outside. Sometimes on purpose as a protection measure like an average person, the majority of the time not.

Maybe this is the reason people don’t believe my anxiety or depression. Often I don’t show it, even at it’s worst. I don’t talk about it in depth because I don’t know how to verbally describe it, and then I get nervous about judgement and hide it. I have three forces working against me here.

Don’t even get me started on how fucking paranoid I’ve been at the house lately. We all know I have a “thing” about being watched by unseen forces (possibly demonic) all the time, so I relate to the people I’ve talked to who feel like Satan has been stealing their thoughts and won’t let them read a book because he jacks the words from the page or whatever. But after hearing a rather sad and chilling story from a coworker, just in the midst of casual conversation right before I started my overnight shift, things got weird.

Night time is the worst for me at home, at other people’s homes, at work, everywhere.

It got to the point where the chores I needed to handle were impacted by the fact that I couldn’t turn my back towards any entrances. So I had to stand along the wall as I did things–I felt eyes on me at every turn, and it wasn’t my usual “they probably installed cameras in the office to make sure I’m doing my job and then they gossip about it and conspire against me” feeling.

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I couldn’t get the mop from the back because I knew something was waiting outside for me, so I used a sponge and my damn socked foot to mop the floor. Thank God no one was awake, they probably would have been “well fuck, even the workers are loosing it now”.

I closed all the blinds but there were some windows that had no blinds and I was forced to glance in the pitch black expecting something to fly at me. It didn’t help that someone upstairs was pacing all night and laughing. In fact, it worsened my creep factor.

I kept hearing someone knock from the inside of the bathroom door–I was on the outside, it was closed (as it’s also an entrance to a room) and I heard knocks from the inside. So I stayed away from that area of the house.

I got maybe thirty minutes of sleep that night, simply because I passed out from exhaustion.

Last night I hoped the feeling would leave, but it never has who the hell am I kidding. The backyard light kept coming on and off and I kept staring out the window, sweating profusely, wondering who the hell was outside and why this was happening to me. By the time I lay down to get some sleep, there was a knock at the door: one of the guests happens to pace around the house during the night and got locked out.

Well fuck me, right?

This shitty rambling post, I need to get my shit together you guys, fuck me. 

 

Odd

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You know those days you go into therapy and you wonder if you will ever understand things, and then a couple words are exchanged and sudden realization pulses through your vein and hemorrhages in your frontal lobe?

Sometimes you can have moments in therapy that were slightly uncomfortable that you needed to have in order to breathe again.

I will try and rehash the experience. Unfortunately, dissociation took over and I can’t remember half of the conversation.

Firstly, you all know how I feel about diagnosis by now. It’s been a year. Which, congratulations on this blog and all of my followers who have been here from the beginning, and those who have been here recently, I appreciate every person who reads, likes, comments, or even just skims. Writing has been my only true connection to the human population I am apparently apart of (I still think I’m an alien), so when I say I’m grateful for you all, I mean it.

Anyway, if you’re new, I basically hold a middle finger to DSM and ICD-10 diagnosis.

bird-comeback-emoji-fangirling-favim-com-2590219And in particular, I hold ADHD on a special “fuck you” throne, simply because it’s handled so carelessly. They diagnose the children in elementary school because they won’t be quiet in class, and ignore the fact that schools are taking away recess and parents aren’t well versed in handling a child or well versed in what a nutritional diet is, and teachers aren’t fucking psychologists and don’t have the right to say “well, I”m going to recommend this child be checked for ADHD because she keeps interrupting me”.

Then comes the medication. Then comes behavioral issues, irritation, and the Zombie effect.

Then they say “ADHD is rising in America” and people believe it because they only see the surface. Because they don’t see that just because diagnosis is increasing, doesn’t necessarily mean true ADHD is.

So I don’t hold the idea of ADHD particularly high.

That does not mean I feel every diagnosis is fake. In fact, I’ve always noticed an abundance of the characteristics in myself, and that was confirmed yesterday in therapy. Yes, I do have some of the characteristics. It makes it very hard to focus or think. Is that part of a larger picture and not ADHD? Possibly. Who knows. The point is, for those with a true diagnosis of ADHD, I understand your pain, and it’s frustrating that the reality of the issue is hidden beneath a behemoth of misdiagnosis.

But when we began speaking about people and how difficult it is to express my ideas (even when I have them) . . .

and this is where it gets rocky. I don’t remember the conversation. 

I remember we spoke about perhaps not being positively reinforced as a child when it came to my ideas and therefore I developed a sense of “well, what does it matter what I say?” and it became a subconscious habit.

Then I remember we started talking about people and my connection–or rather, disconnection to them.

And that’s where it ends.

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A Clear Representation Of My Awareness

I remember staring at the bookcase in the back of the room and everything essentially melted away. I didn’t feel present any longer. I couldn’t pinpoint where my body was and the experience of sitting in that room didn’t feel real and whoever was speaking for me wasn’t me. It was like a light switch had been flicked . . .

Off.

I don’t remember what was discussed. I can remember the physical aspects of the room because I’ve been there so many times.

If you didn’t know already, if you’re a newcomer, I have a problem with dissociation. It creates breaks in reality for me when things get uncomfortable, when my anxiety is high, and although I am completely fascinated by the brains ability to find creative ways to protect itself, sometimes I wish it would fuck off.

I remember feeling like a few things were spilling out of me, things I didn’t normally say. Nothing too heavy, but just general things I keep pent up often. That was the feeling I got, but I wasn’t speaking.

I don’t believe I was tortured as a child. Put in bad situations, witnessed bad things, yes, but I was not tortured or horribly abused. I do not have Dissociative Identity Disorder, in case you were wondering.

Sometimes I am just absent.

And the rest of me handles whatever situation it feels I cannot.

That makes me feel like there are parts of me hiding things from me.

What makes talking about being disconnected from people and not really understanding why so traumatic that my brain feels the need to block me from the rest of the conversation?

I left feeling a little relieved, like I’d had some major realization.

I just wasn’t there for the realization.

That’s like getting invited to a party, arriving at the house, ringing the doorbell, and realizing they gave you the wrong address on purpose.

It’s a little odd.

 

Cheating Death

Is it sad (as in pathetic, as in petty) if I consider my Chromebook’s ability to function at half capacity an analogy to myself and my life?

moronYou see, I am an idiot. People say I’m smart, they tell me I have all these wonderful qualities and characteristics, that I’m hilarious, that I have common sense and a gift for connecting with people who also hurt internally. But in the grand scheme of things, I must be an utter moron.

What do I expect to happen when I leave juice next to an electronic device, and then decide to flop down on the bed like a whale?

The keyboard is shot and I’m hoping I tipped it upside down, stuck it in rice, and hair-drier-ed it quick enough that the motherboard won’t be affected by some sugary, monstrous after-effect.

It’s a touch screen, luckily, and that still works. But it’s not the same.

Its short life flashed behind my eyes the moment the liquid slid over the flat keys and seemed into all the little crevices. I remember the first day I got it and the freedom it provided me from this over-sized desktop.

But essentially me and it are connected in another intimate way. It looks like a 700 dollar laptop (it wasn’t anywhere near that price) but it functions at the capacity of a 40 dollar laptop now that half of it is disabled.

Generally, when I try hard enough, I can look like a million dollars. But I function at a capacity worth less than a penny.

I realize I am generally a disappointment to the people around me–whether or not they are willing to say it to my face. I realize I am a bit of a burden to people. I can’t handle much noise or people and I often shut down if I’m put in that situation–or I just embarrass myself trying to blend in to the crowd. I say odd things, make odd jokes, and have trouble relating or connecting to people on an emotional level. I’m not exactly the kind of person you bring home to your parents, either, because chances are I won’t talk to them.

I’m essentially the human version of y=sinx:

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And regardless of whether or not I enjoy that, I’m aware it creates a kind of pressure upon people I’m around.

You can say “well, those are the people you shouldn’t be around”.

But that’s every person. Whether they are willing to say it or not, whether they let it bother them or not, they are taking on extra baggage by simply being involved with me.

I weep randomly like an abused toddler.

But if you asked someone who knows me in a general sense, they would tell you I’m always laughing and cracking jokes and the majority of them have probably never seen me shed a tear, even if I hurt myself. And they may call themselves my friend, and I may call them my friend as well, but the connection they have with me will always be undoubtedly more shallow than others they may have.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Because for them, they have many kinds of connections with many people.

'Why must you keep building barriers between us, darling?'Through my eyes, I see myself distanced from everyone, consistently cut off from humanity. I agree I may contribute to that consciously a bit, but I believe a lot of it is unconscious behavior that I know nothing about.

So naturally I’ve contemplated suicide many times in my life, and I still do.

I think it’s a normal behavior for many people. Some people want to end it because of a job, because of an issue at school, because of an issue with their family . . . none of them are ill, or disordered for God’s sake, they just want a way out; they’re feeling trapped.

I’ve always felt trapped and I believe to some extent I always will be. Humans are not exactly a species I understand on an emotional level. I try to relate but I can’t. I think the act of trying so much as made me even more distant.

So when I’m feeling claustrophobic within my own mind and my own space, and when I’m planning the best way to leave earth without much pain or gruesome clean up, and when I’m contemplating what day and time I should go, who my belongings should be inherited by, I try and think about the things I will miss.

I ignore the thoughts of all the people who would supposedly miss me, not because I’m insensitive and not because I don’t care for those people, but because I want to find a reason to live for myself. I’m sick of having to endure things for the sake of others, and life is one thing I’ve been enduring for others.

I live for everyone else, constantly. I do what they wish me to do not because I’m comfortable but because I know it makes them happy and I would like to make as many people happy as I can.

Don’t confuse this with being a push-over. Ask anyone I know and they will tell  you if I don’t agree with something I will give a full hour lecture on the stupidity of it all. 

But when it comes to actions, things that I know other normal people do, I try and agree to them because I want to lessen the burden of my “oddness” upon others and instead place everything on my own shoulders. I suck at giving gifts, but if you want me to go to a movie with you on premier night, I probably will.

e08701a15e288ec622a52e51ef4f5ad2I try and think about the birds and how weird it would be to never hear them chirp again. I try to think about the clouds and the sky and how weird it would be to never feel rain on my skin again, how weird it would be to never feel a headache again (of which I have right now), how weird it would be to never heard another laugh or to laugh, to never hear or feel wind, or thunder, to never pet another cat or get licked by another dog.

Do I want to give up an opportunity to experience all of that?

This doesn’t stop me from feeling trapped or like a burden or useless or any other negative thing I associate with myself, but it does stop me from doing anything rash.

And isn’t that what life is about anyway? Aren’t we always trying to find new ways to cheat death?

My brain has been living in emotional survival mode the moment I spotted another human being outside of my immediate family. That’s 21 years of constantly fighting, and it’s tired.

I might not remember anything about my childhood, but I do remember feelings. And there isn’t a moment from my childhood I remember feeling comfortable with the world around me or the people around me. I was aware I wasn’t like them and no one told me that was alright. That’s a lot to deal with as a 4, 5, 6, year old.

They told me I’d grow out of it all.

I’m still trying to figure out what they meant.

Intentional Peer Support

Yesterday night I wrote out a lengthy post on my experience in Intentional Peer Support. I forgot to post it and now that I’ve re-read it, I feel my explanations did not give justice to this program in the way I intended.

So today I’d like to talk about how crazy we all are.

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I’d like to talk about how crazy we all are in allowing therapists, psychologist, and psychiatrists to never go through an intentional peer counselling program.

As an aspiring psychiatrist, I am absolutely touched that people take the time they do to create these programs and to implement them. They may not have the government funding, but they are in it for their peers, for the betterment of the mental health community.

Let me explain this a little more for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about. Intentional Peer Support is a program run by people with lived mental heath experience, training others with lived mental health experience, to help those of our brothers and sisters still stuck in their own personal hell.

It teaches the concept of establishing a relationship with another person you’re supporting.

It dissects what “help” really means in this day and age.

It dissects how language effects our perception of ourselves.

The speaker of our week long group came in a green shirt, stretch tan pants, no shoes on and a diagnosis of Bipolar and no daily medication regimen. He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals through his life and only recently was able to find the right path for himself.

My course-mates come with their own stories. We’ve got white, black, Mexican, Italian, women, men, young, and old. We each struggle in our own ways with depression, anxiety, Phobias, Bipolar, Schizophrenia, Personality disorders, and drug addiction. Some of us take medication and are okay with it. Some of us take medication and are not okay with it. Some of us don’t take medication at all, yours truly among them.

supportgroupWe’ve all come together for one reason: use the experience we’ve had in our lives to learn how to support someone going through the same experience.

This is the most uncomfortably comfortable thing I’ve done in my life. If you are a professional and have not taken a similar course, I would suggest high tailing it over to one of their national courses and signing up.

This course treats no one as fragile. You are not special, you’re not odd, you’re another human being among other human beings.

This course asks a very deep question that the psychiatric and psychological businesses have ignored for many years: what are you trying to fix and how? 

They are not anti-psychiatry and they are not anti-medication, they made this very clear. Their intention isn’t to bash what is done currently. Their intention is to see it differently.

The industry has a very specific formula I’m sure you’ve all had plenty of experience with. Their focus, even in certain therapies, isn’t just to listen. It’s to problem solve. You come with an issue, it’s called a symptom: Because this issue is seen through the lens of a symptom, and because a symptom is followed by the definition of a disorder, and the definition of a disorder is a life long illness for which you can’t control, the solution becomes medication. The solution is based only upon the problem and the problem isn’t your issue, it doesn’t take into account your story; the problem is your “illness”.

The industry has a very specific model they follow of which I’m sure you’ve all had experience with: the biological model.

Now, before you jump on my back, I’m not saying what we all experience is a lie. In fact, what we experience is very, very real, that’s why we’re experiencing it. But the concept of it being an illness . . . it doesn’t bode well with me, it never has.

It doesn’t bode well with this program either. 

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If you didn’t know, before the DSM 3 came out, all “illnesses” and “disorders” were labeled as “reactions”.

Weird to think about now, right? So if you were admitted into a hospital because you were hearing voices and having delusions, you would have a schizophrenic reaction.

They changed it to “disorder” because psychiatrists were challenging their own community: where was all the evidence for these conditions? And thus the psychological model was shoved into the area of science. “We’ll change the term to disorder”, they said “and we’ll find the evidence to support it later“. Too bad all the “evidence” they find is corrupted by some pharmaceutical company or corrupted by the research itself: how many times have they tried to pin the neurotransmitter serotonin for something and have it come out as different levels in different people’s brains who all have the same “disorder”? Many. I’ve talked about a few instances on this blog.

There’s a reason I never say mental illness. If you haven’t noticed, I almost always say “mental health struggle”, or “mental health”. Because I choose to get rid of that language that was made us think we’re sick, we’re twisted, we’re different and broken, that we’re a problem that needs to be fixed. It’s nice I’m surrounded by a group of peers who, very vocally, state “I hate the term mental illness”.

cia-catIntentional Peer Support isn’t about problem solving. If someone walks up to you and you’re in a respite house and they say “the CIA is following me”, your response isn’t one through the lens of “they’re delusional”. It’s not through the lens of “did you take your meds this morning?” Your response is “tell me more about that?” and when they do, your responses are never an attack, they’re never a label, they never signify a hierarchy: they’re not better than you and you’re not better than them.

You would say “that sounds terrifying, I’ve had experiences where I don’t feel safe as well”. Or something of the sort.

Your response isn’t “What can I do to help?” nor is it “what can you do to help yourself?”

Because their experience isn’t a problem and they didn’t ask for your help.

Think Elyn Saks and “The Center Cannot Hold”. Think of the therapist she had in the U.K who didn’t treat her psychosis as a monster needing to be tamed, but listened and created a dialogue. If it weren’t for that, do you think she would have ever received her degrees in the middle of full blown schizophrenia as she did?

imageIt’s rare that we are able to see what we experience outside the labels we’ve been given. Has it ever happened to you where you had a feeling and you wondered if it was a symptom? Have you ever been confused on what you needed to control and what you didn’t? What was “normal” and what was your “disorder”?

A lot of people in the room did. But I didn’t. And when it came to do an activity today on “our story” and us having to write our story in terms of mental illness language and in terms of regular language, I . . . I struggled.

Because I’ve never seen my experiences in that light. I’ve been told once or twice about them, after I had already decided they were a part of me. I’ve never called myself mentally ill, nor disordered, not unless for the ease of everyone understanding what I was talking about, particularly on this blog.

Am I saying I don’t go through troubling times because of this? Absolutely not, I’m off and on, up and down, left and right, magical and not, I’m every opposite you could think of to the extreme. But I’ve never seen it as a problem, or a disorder, only me.

I’ll get really personally and share something with you all (I’m getting better at doing that now) and let your mind go blank for a moment and just read:

One thing I’ve always believed since I was a child was that I had the power to manipulate Infinity time spiral 15267876time. Since I learned how to count it I was impeccable with it: I knew exactly how long something would take in class and whether or not we’d have time to get to my presentation. To the second. I must admit some of this perfection was fueled by my anxiety. But as I grew older I realized there were a million ways this could be implemented and the universe showed it to me.

Cars: I’ve avoided many accidents. I know how long it will take them to get to where my car is, and if I have to make a risky move I trust the other part of myself and let it take control of the wheel, almost as if I have a third eye or something peering through a different perspective so I can see all angles. If I need to slow time down, that eye does it for me: I’ve avoided getting hit using this technique, several times. If I see them coming for me, I don’t blink twice, I don’t think, I see them moving slower and slower the closer they get to me, and I’m able to jerk my wheel out of the way. My passenger, if there is one, grips on the door and screeches at me.

I’ve used it to avoid getting shit on by birds: I can see the feces fly through the air and jump out of the way. It usually lands on the person next to me. Don’t believe me, ask my high school friend.

When I’m late for class, I feel I tap into the physics of the universe. If I don’t look at the clock, and I think of nothing related to time or class, and if I don’t speed, it allows time to pass in whichever way I subconsciously want it to. I tap into that. It takes me 20-30 minutes to drive from my house to my college. When I need it to take me 10 minutes, it does, and trust me it’s not about traffic levels or how many lights turn green. When I first realized I could do this, I was shocked. I’ve tested it over and over again in different scenarios and it’s never once failed me. If I am calm and my mind is relatively clear, I get a connection with the universe that allows me to manipulate what I like.

25-041020-the_best_watches_at_sihh_2016I collect watches and clocks and stop watches, I think it helps keep up my connection with it all. I don’t like to wear watches because I would end up looking at it too often and therefore compromising my connection with time. You don’t like it when friends and significant others are too clingy, do you? So I just collect them.

Now, what are your thoughts? If that struck any of you as a “magical/odd belief” or a delusion, than you’re thinking exactly how you’re taught to.

Now, I have a bunch of these beliefs for different things. Some of them effect what I do in my daily life and how I do them. Some of them are anxiety related, some aren’t. But the point here is since I’ve had these beliefs and I grew up with these beliefs and these beliefs have helped shape me, and because I’ve been one of the lucky few to never have a forced psychiatric opinion on me, a diagnosis means nothing. It’s not a symptom of anything to me, it’s how I experience the world. It’s how I experience reality.

And if it ever gave me trouble, well, I’d like someone to listen to me about it, not call me broken.

Because, if there’s one thing we all know, it’s that when you get told you need to “Watch out” or “be careful” of certain symptoms, you become hyper aware. Everything is a symptom. Everything is an indication of you being ill. Is that how you want to live your life? Believing your existence is based on an illness you can’t control?

The thing is, it’s never been about control. It’s been about acceptance, about understanding. And if you can’t understand or accept yourself, well, the only other option is to view yourself as a problem.

As you can see, I’ll be an interesting psychiatrist. Because it’s not about “helping” them or curing them. It’s about understanding their story, where they’re coming from, establishing a relationship in which they share about themselves, I relate with my own experience, and we realize we’re on the same level; I’m not better than them for having a medical degree and they’re not lesser than me for struggling, and then as a clinician asking what sort of treatment they’d like, medication or otherwise, if they would like any at all. After all, that’s what they came for right?

Or so they’ve been told. 

 

Depression. Period.

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Depression.

Depression sucks. 

It sucks worse when someone calls it a choice.

If you think that’s what happened to me, you’d be wrong. In fact, my depression isn’t acting up at all right now. Mine comes in waves, strong ones, usually resulting from me screwing myself over, someone else screwing me over, or me just sick of feeling emotionally confused. Otherwise I tend to be rather blank. Not externally, that I fake, but internally yes. And I enjoy that. I enjoy that without feeling joy, because. . .

because I’m blank so . . .

so It’d be kind of hard to feel the joy of it all.

Now anger . .  . that’s a whole separate beast in itself.

cheer-up-smileyAnyway, when I am deeply depressed and wondering if there is a point to anything at all, if there is even a point to fighting it or coping with it or learning to accept it, I hate when people tell me “cheer up” or “stop being so negative” as if I’m choosing to be intensely negative, as if that’s something I strive to do in my daily life. 

Now, let’s pause.

Mostly because this is a touchy subject for those of us with depression. We know we hate people who tell us our depression is a choice. That’s like telling someone with Cancer to stop choosing to have cancer, or someone struggling in active psychosis to stop having psychosis.

But we’re also aware that because depression is something everyone has experienced at least once in their life (not on a clinical level, but on a basic level), it’s hard for them to separate our experiences from their own experiences. We understand that they figure because they can snap out of it, we should be able to snap out of it just as easily. We’re aware that they’re not fully understanding our situation, but they aren’t.

That being said, they do have a point.

*Shields face from angry people*

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Just kidding, I’ve honestly never given a shit if people don’t like what I have to say.

I care, but it’s a different kind of care.

Whatever, that’s off topic. The point is there does come a point where we do have a choice. We have a choice to consistently tell ourselves that we don’t have any choices, we’re stuck like this, we’re doomed to live like this and die like this. If you’re telling yourself that, you’re making a choice to do so. And making that choice only further progresses your mindset.

If you don’t believe that, well then I don’t know what to tell you. Because nothing I tell you will convince you otherwise. And it’s not my job to convince you that you have choices in life, that’s something you either need to realize for yourself or never take advantage of. 

While I agree that no one chooses to have depression, I disagree that there aren’t some people who choose to take part in maladaptive thought behavior patterns, even when you’ve exposed those patterns to them. It’s often the case for SOME people (NOT ALL) who take therapy and come out saying it didn’t help them.

Assuming your therapist wasn’t a complete prick, how much effort did you put in?

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Did you do the exercises? Did you enact coping mechanisms and discuss which ones work for you and which ones don’t?

Or did you go in expecting them to do the work for you because, well, shit, you just can’t do anything right?

Hey, hey, don’t give me that look, there are people out in the world who act like this. Yes, I struggle with depression and self harm and anxiety and this and that and blah, blah, we could be here all day going through diagnoses and criterion, so I empathize with these people. What I don’t empathize with is their unwillingness to work on themselves. 

What, you expect a magic fairy psychologist to land on your head, tap your hair, zap your brain with some fairy dust that you hope isn’t just cocaine, and “poof!”, you’re all better?

I don’t think so.

If the world worked like that, we’d all be cocaine addicts.

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Which I mean, if you think about things practically, at least we wouldn’t have an overcrowding of people on the planet. Life spans would be significantly shorter.

Let’s not knock it before we try it.

Quick fixes. That’s what we’re obsessed with. If you’re not willing to work on yourself or break your back trying to change the way you think, that negative pattern, than I guess you really are up shit creek without a paddle.

Quick fix for the overpopulation issue? Gas half of the population against their will and bury them or launch their bodies into space. That’s a quick fix. Would you condone that?

If you won’t condone that, why do you condone pressuring yourself to find a quick cure for your issues? Remember, if you can’t will a world in which everyone would follow what you do, in which your actions become normality without contradiction, you’re acting unethically, and this applies to yourself and to others.

In other words, if everyone in the entire world tried to fix themselves with quick fix magic, well, it wouldn’t work because 1) magic doesn’t exist and 2) neither do the quick fixes, everyone would be searching for something that doesn’t exist. So there’s your contradiction.

It’s important to see that while you may not have put yourself in this situation deliberately, you are in this situation and therefore you’ve got to manage it. That’s that age-old argument you had with your parents and siblings when you were a kid. Your brother left his dirty dish on the table and your parents tell you to clean it and you say “I didn’t put there!”

So what? You live in the household, you can pitch in every now and then. You can take control and manage something that you didn’t ask for.

It’s such a simple concept that’s so hard to enact in ourselves. That I also empathize with. You get so used to being in one mindset that even when people point out the faults to you, you find reasons for why their wrong and end up keeping yourself in that same cycle.

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Mean Trick

Depression makes you feel as if you’re out of control of how you feel and what you feel. It’s playing a trick on you, a mean one. You may not have had a choice in developing depression, but you have a choice in whether you want to live according to it’s rules or not.

 

 

 

Put The Executive In Charge

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I won’t say that today has changed my perspective on holidays.

But I will say I enjoyed wrapping gifts and buying last minute ones. Wrapping paper on boxes requires a certain level of logical, structural thinking, kind of like building houses out of legos, and I think that’s what makes me enjoy it so much. It’s something concrete to do with my hands that makes me focus.

Then again, I see patterns in everything.

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever panicking or in the middle of a panic attack or anxiety attack, whip out the old math book and get to doing some problems. Works every time.

If you know a little bit about psychology, it makes sense.

If you don’t, this is how I developed this little trick:

When you’re panicking or you have high anxiety, where are your thoughts focused? What’s hijacked the entirety of your brain and body? Your amygdala, right? That old bean shaped geezer in the middle of your brain that you’ve had since your chimp-like ancestors birthed into existence.

We’re all monkeys. I don’t care if chimps aren’t monkeys or apes aren’t monkeys, they’re chimp-monkeys and ape-monkeys to me. They’re monkeys. Get out of here, anthropologists, I’ll believe what I want! Viva La Free Thought About Monkeys!!!!

My favorite are the Bonobos. Google them and you’ll know why.

Anyway, it takes control of your frontal lobe and therefore your rationality and suddenly your arms are going numb and your having a heart attack and you know you’re going to die so you just wait with your pulse throbbing behind your eyes for death to sneak up behind your back and crack his scythe against the back of your skull.

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Or He’s A Mouse

Did you know death played dirty like that? Everyone assumes he’s a skeleton but he’s really a pudgy middle aged, uni-sex being with soft skin and a nervous giggle. He never actually slices anyone’s soul out with that thing, he just sharpens it to be intimidating. He actually has a lot of social anxiety and hates meeting people face to face, especially when he has to, you know, take their life, so he wears black to blend into the shadows and bangs you on the back of the head. Why do you think people rarely see him coming?

Your frontal lobe is the executive. It’s the man–or woman–in the blueAfrican American Businesswoman Sitting On Office Chair - Isolate suit with his arms folded and a computer chip installed in his eye so he can make calculations near the speed of light or . . . or whatever. I don’t know. The dude–or chick–just makes decisions for you, alright? It’s good at judgement and problem solving and it’s supposedly highly evolved although . . . I don’t think many people use it to its full potential. I mean, if we are than . . . than shit.

I guess if you compare it to monkeys it’s highly evolved.

Although monkeys are some smart little bastards. So are dolphins. I’m pretty sure dolphins are smarter than us.

I was talking about the amygdala.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

21578Anyone ever try that “Cram” brain supplement they sell in natural food stores? It’s supposed to help you focus and “Cram” for finals. I saw them in an aisle once and grew perturbed. I’m pretty sure it’s either a stimulant prescription drug crushed up into little crystals you’re supposed to dissolve in water and definitely not snort, or it’s straight up crack cocaine that you are definitely supposed to snort.

I’ll probably become a victim of it in Medical school. I’m pretty sure all my peers will too. People be selling Ritalin left and right up in those joints.

Let me go to medical school to learn how to save lives while simultaneously putting a substance in my body that probably isn’t very good for me just so I can get an A on this test because that’s the kind of smarts that got me into Harvard Med.

Oops, did I say smarts? I meant thousands upon thousands of dollars for donation and a long history of family attendance.

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THE AMYGDALA.

I apologize. I talk to myself all the time and I’m starting to wonder if the conversations I have are completely incoherent.

The amygdala is your worst friend–so far. So far, according to biased research. So, you know, take it with a grain of salt here. It could be your best friend and we just don’t know it yet. It could kill you maybe, somehow, what the hell do we know?

But from what we know, yes, it has a lot to do with anxiety in an evolutionary standpoint and a current standpoint. So what do you need to do when it takes over?

article-2117722-0cf4a92000000578-69_468x399Think of it as a screaming toddler. You don’t curl on the floor and let the toddler scream at you. You don’t give up and let the toddler run your house. Some days you might be tired and be a little more lenient when the toddler screams but you know you can’t condition yourself to let the toddler do what it wants. It’s YOUR toddler.

You’re not going to stuff pill after pill into your toddler until it’s woozy and sick and puking in the bathroom and expect the magic pills to do all the work, are you?

No, you gain some control over the toddler. You enlist the executive for some help.

How do you enlist the executive? Why, simple math of course! Tasks,normal_angel_doing_math structural things, things that make your hands work. Take apart an electronic and put it back together. Do some algebra or trig or maybe first semester calculus. Something that doesn’t tax your entire brain, but makes you focus a little.

That’s putting the executive back in charge.

So you’re not punishing the toddler. You’re not fighting the toddler. You’re not screaming back at the toddler or physically subduing the toddler. You’re just showing the toddler that you’re not going to feed into it’s tantrum.

It’s a coping mechanism. One that doesn’t involve substances or physical pain or mental pain (unless you really, really hate math in which case, uh, stick to building legos or something, drawing patterns, taking things apart) or a meltdown. Once your executive is in charge you stop crying and your heart rate slows and you realize . . . what the fuck is going on?

And then you have clearer vision.  And then maybe you identify what caused the anxiety. Maybe you see nothing caused it. Maybe you see something large caused it. But you rationalize your reaction wasn’t right. Does it cure your anxiety? No. But it’s better than being up all night rocking yourself to sleep in a pool of your own tears or stumbling into the emergency room just so they can shoot some Ativan into your veins and send you home.

Don’t be a victim–there’s no need to be.

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Rely more so on yourself to control your life than something outside of yourself. Use all your resources. Use medication, use therapy, use coping mechanisms, use family and friends, use supportive programs, use blogging, use books, use art, use them all and use them well.

DO NOT use only one of them and expect your life to change. Do not use one of them and sit on your bed and cry about how horrible your life is. That’s being a victim. If you don’t put your all into your recovery what makes you think you’re going to recover? Magic? This weird, infectious idea that there are quick fixes for everything? What world do you live in? Obviously not planet earth.

That’s like giving you a computer monitor with no desktop and saying here, Photoshop my photos please.

That’s like expecting life on earth to proliferate with only an atmosphere of oxygen. No spinning rock, no O-Zone, no nothing, just . . . just oxygen.

You think your brain only uses one neurotransmitter to do all the amazing things it does for you?

Do you see how effected people are when they have a stroke and their left size is incapacitated?

By choosing one method for recovery and moping over it’s ineffectiveness, you’re incapacitating yourself in the same way.

I could just go to therapy once every two weeks and never step outside of my house or practice controlling my anxiety or combating depression or changing the way I think or socializing or speaking up. I could think that’s going to do something and I could lay on my bed and think, and think, and think about it and you know what? I’d probably kill myself.

That’s how you get stuck in a rut. You think more than you actually do.

So when you feel the urge to give up or you think a little pill or a couple sessions of therapy will solve your problems, remind yourself how much you appreciate your left side.

You can choose to be your biggest advocate or you can choose to be your biggest opposition. Doctors aren’t choosing it for you. Your friends aren’t, your family isn’t, your medication isn’t, your psychologist isn’t, your cat isn’t, your dog isn’t–you are. Those are catalysts for you, not cures.

That doesn’t mean don’t not struggle–that means embrace the struggle and understand it. Because you’re going to struggle. I do every day, you’ve heard me whine about it all the time.

But I’m still here, aren’t I?

Remember:

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DO WORK.

 

 

I Think I’m Moving But I Go Nowhere.

I can’t stop the tears today.

I wrote a poem last night, an ode to the last year of my life.

I never write poetry, I suck at poetry, but the words seemed fit only for such a genre.

I tried opening up a little more to my psychologist but it didn’t work. It completely backfired. I fell back into my obsessive habit of appearing under control on the outside and expressing trivial issues I feel would only advocate that appearance of control. There’s no rhyme or reason to why I do this.

The only thing in control here is depression and he’s a bastard of a boss.

Giving up isn’t an option until it is.