Ask for Help, Carefully

 

Ask for help.

Such a simple statement, but in the context of reaching out to mental health services for help, it’s quite complicated and daunting.

Where I live, and on my disability income, my choices for services are limited to who takes Medicare, and out of that, who has openings, or what kind of waiting list I’ll be added to, and not about being able to search out styles or reputations of practitioners.

So, what do I face if I’m struggling and take the suggestion to reach out for help?

To aid in simplifying the answers, I’ll divide my response into three problematic aspects of mental health treatment. Did I say problematic? Yes.

These three aspects are:

    1)     inpatient psychiatric hospitalization

    2)     medication

    3)     therapy

 

If I call a crisis line or 911 or tell someone it’s really bad, I feel like ending it all, or I want to or have already hurt myself, I’ll likely be assessed for inpatient psychiatric treatment. If I say no, but the social worker or psychologist or psychiatrist says, oh my yes, then I’ll be forced into a psych unit on a temporary detention order. Either way, by choice or not, I won’t be leaving the hospital until the psychiatrist, who I don’t get to choose, who I must deal and comply with no matter who and how they are, signs off allowing me to be discharged.  It doesn’t matter if I find the hospital stifling, abusive, don’t like that I share a room, can’t have coffee or smoke, don’t have access to music or streaming shows, my phone, a computer, or any comforts of home. What’s looked at is how well I’m complying to treatment this psychiatrist has ordered for me during my stay, whether I agree or not.

And then there’s the issue of psychiatric medication. It’s overwhelmingly accepted that I will take medication, even though I’ve been so physically worn down by meds over four decades and then dealt with over two years in withdrawal from multiple meds being stopped, without taper, all at once. I never want to experience psych drugs again, all the adverse effects, the constant adjustments, poly-drugging, and complete lack of support around all that and the ignoring of my voice in any of it. I’ve been inpatient psych since my meds were stopped, and I’ve had to agree to meds just to get out. I took them only until I was home and could shove the rest of the bottle to the back of a cabinet.

There’s also the therapy issue. Therapy, at its best, with a truly involved and caring person, is respectful presence to your actual pain and quandaries, the ugly and beautiful side of expressing all that, with an appreciation for what together leads to some breakthroughs and relief from the burden of carrying suffering alone. But those kinds of therapists seem to be aging and gradually leaving, replaced by new generations of CBT, DBT, skills and worksheets, exercises, and rating cards practitioners. They miss all the complexity of a person as they look right past them to some kind of diagram they draw on a whiteboard, straight out of some manual on techniques for making people function better for society. People who approach me with such advisements without thoroughly getting to know me are toxic, just through and through dismissive and cold.

What do I do then for help, if reaching out to mental health services is such a minefield?

I’ve found that discussions, some brief, some very long, with people I know will understand me and where I’m coming from, have immense value. When I feel seen and heard, I value myself. It’s important to know that these talks with others need to include also listening to the other person. In the back and forth, I may not always know what benefit I’ll take away, or what they’ll take away, but that there was time spent on each other is such a lift to the soul.

Sometimes the figuring out of things happens in my dreams. I don’t journal them or analyze them for days, but I do acknowledge that, yes, my unconscious mind wanted to look into that about my life, and I should take note.

Other times I find support or clues, information, even comfort in shows, movies, and documentaries I watch, and this isn’t planned, but happens as I come across whatever that piece is. These processes of putting together my never-ending puzzle are often very hard, aren’t clearcut, and above all are ongoing with little pops of clarity and contentment, maybe joy, plus I do them as I can, not as a matter of some set routine or well-planned practice.

But some routine does get me through the worst of days. Keeping my home in order, the cat properly cared for, money budgeted and bills paid, the car maintained and my hygiene carried out, all of these keep me at lower levels of anxiety and self-flagellation. Knowing I’ve covered the basics in life provides a sense of security and safety and worthiness.

Would I advise anyone to ask for help from mental health services? No, honestly, I would not, could not in good conscience tell someone that they may be better off seeking professional psych assistance. Too many bad things can happen in that universe, and the chances vastly outweigh good things happening. I’m speaking from personal experience, four decades of experiences that have left me, in the end, searching out my own ways, and I’m finding that my own ways yield richer and more healing results and meaningful bonding with those I love.