There’s nothing like telling your deepest, darkest secrets to a total stranger. As if you walk into a coffee shop, sit down at a random table and someone says “Pardon me, but were you ever molested as a child?” Oh yes, and I pay this random stranger money to ask me uncomfortably probing questions. I like the new guy though, he has a good ‘voice’ and he’s no dummy. I found myself struggling to keep up with him and that’s good exercise for my soggy brain. I had to have him repeat a few things and forgot what we were talking about once, but all in all, for a first meeting, it went well. I’m looking forward to going back, I feel like I could finally make some progress with this guy. It’s a hard process getting comfortable with a new therapist and I’m forced by circumstance to do it all too frequently. Let alone spend the time to search for someone who is good. Looking back, I have really settled for less than the best and I don’t want to do that anymore. We talked about my worries, and the distress I create for myself every time I let myself get sucked in and worked up about things. My frustration with my decreased mental capacity was evident and he pointed out to me in a way that rang bells, that I have a biochemical imbalance that causes my memory to lapse and my decreased functioning. It is through no fault of my own, no failure on my part, that I am less than whole. My guilt and frustration serve no purpose but to increase my stress load, thereby decreasing my functional abilities. Not in so many words but that is where I ended up, I took a lot of hope away from that conversation with a stranger.
I am finally taking some steps forward toward ECT treatments, I go for an EKG and bloodwork thursday, if all goes well I could be scheduling my initial assessment in a few weeks. I hope it doesn’t take months to get in. I’m worried they will reject me for some reason or another. Rejection and bipolar go together in the medical community. No, you can not donate part of your liver to your dying friend, well, because you’re bipolar. You also can not donate plasma, not because of the meds, but because of the diagnosis. It goes on all the paperwork, labels you as incapable of making sound decisions for yourself. People judge you by it, and judge you harshly. Of course the fact that I weigh 200 lbs am generally unkempt and have dreadlocks does nothing for first impressions. I look like a dirty slob, but it’s a cry for help. I am also incapable of making sound decisions for myself.
I feel pain, psychic ache in my soul all the time, it hurts to live, each breath is an effort. My heart hurts, not that forever pumping muscle, but the psychic one, the one you can’t hear with a stethoscope. There is no way to measure my pain in the world of modern medicine, I have no way to prove or show them that I am sick. My frustration with the hidden nature of my illness leaves me desiring some physical symptom, something to measure. If I walked into the office disemboweled with my duodenum in my hands that would perhaps be equivalent to what I feel inside when suicidal thoughts are haunting me and the robot flies won’t leave me alone. So don’t judge me by my diagnosis, by my weight and my smoking, my high cholesterol and the fact that I haven’t bathed in a week. Look inside and see my pain.
I think I’ll make one of those mental illness t-shirts for the bad days, just to warn everyone off.