TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
I am very very sorry for the person I have been most of my life who was a real bitch to so many people because of the pain, bewilderment and frustration I was dealing with from my physical conditions that noone knew of or understood and then getting badly misdiagnosed when I finally walked into a psychiatrist’s office, after hoping against hope all my life up until that point, that’s what I got. and the wrong meds. But I had to take them–knowing this–because none of the questions he asked had anything to do with the problems I had–because that was what was offered.
This is where I have been in my head, heart, body, mind and soul ALL MY LIFE. And when I tried to turn to religion I couldn’t grasp it because it came through this illegitimate source–the overweight, divorced Jewish Psychologist who just like to chew the fat. The psychiatrist was good. But he was a CHILD PSYCHIATRIST, and specifically contraindicated in the case of a woman fully an adult, but only just, at 21, just on the cusp of adulthood, with serious issues of promiscuity, and an abnormal experience of adolescence at a girl’s school that was like a convent. After all these years (40), I finally have a voice to say this.
I had such serious needs at that time and he just didn’t get it. He liked my mother, and there was a war going on there. She didn’t have a clue about what I was going through or why and didn’t care. The doctor apparently felt similarly. After about 4 months of meds I felt so sick and I was in so much pain I was desperate to die. It’s hard to explain the pain of a bad, older psych med. It was the feeling of agitation and that I felt responsible for it, that it was my fault, because I had done so many bad things away at college; and I lay there in bed feeling guilty, and went over it and over it, and the release of bed wore off and didn’t help any more. I just don’t have any words for this beyond what I have just said. It went on for months. Finally, the wrist cutting. Not slashing, just two neat little cuts.
The psychiatrist also treated me with humor. He was alarmed at first, at the changed in me after being on the psych ward after a week or two. He realized how serious my depression was when I responded to light and being around people. Well, all I know is that he “recognized a marked change.” And I sensed that he was scared. It’s always been that way for me, and it’s why I dread coming “home” to my family. I am instantly committable because they make me act strange. Elsewhere I am fine but I used to think, or fear , that I was a multiple and I wanted it to be true so I could convict my mother. Now that is the last thing I want to be. But I wonder about these OCD moments and about whether my mother used to deliberately keep me on that excruciating point of dissociation where you are dealing with the raw pain which is exactly what being a multiple is about, the pain that you can’t handle. It is so sick what has gone down with me and my mother and that there just isn’t enough time left for me to get through it in this lifetime.
I am shaking as this goes off of me. I have to climb down off this horse for the night.
Un.Bon.Mot 