Is There Hope for Psych Treatment?

If you’ve followed my blog, you know about my history with psychiatric treatment, that I was on drug cocktails for years, in and out of psych units, that a psychiatrist stopped many of my meds at once without taper, that I’ve endured detention on psych units where I felt at best ignored and at worst abused, that I’m able to figure out my own psyche and handle my moods better off psych meds, and that I need to talk about all of that.

But do I condemn all psychiatrists, psychologists, and mental health social workers, finding them intolerable and beyond redemption? No.

As I try pointing out the very bad parts of treatment I experienced, many mental health professionals quickly jump in to write me off as a psych patient with hysterical views, poor past choices, and a desire to incite fear that turns others away from seeking help. This happens on social media, but also in the brief encounters I’ve had with mental health professionals in person. That’s the distressing part, the part where I lose hope, because it’s not that hard to engage.

And then, like an opening in cloudy night skies revealing the silvery, serene moon, I’ll find a psych professional with heart. They are there. They are willing to admit the negative aspects of psych treatment that they’ve seen for themselves. They express sorrow over that, and they also wish for a future of less psych patient coercion, more time to listen and take in what each patient feels and wants, more logical medication protocols, and treatment settings that respect both patients and practitioners.

Personally, I don’t need someone guiding me every step of the way. I don’t need supervision over my life. Dark days and disturbing thoughts don’t send me over the edge; I deal with their visits, knowing they’ll go elsewhere eventually. In my rawer, unmedicated state, I’m willing to look at what I once feared, find my strengths, revel in joy, appreciate others’ struggles, and accept myself fully whether I’m moving forward or sitting for days like a lump on the sofa. So, who cares about that? I care, and so should all behavioral health treatment practitioners. And that’s because I hold hope now. I hold faith not because psychiatry leapt in and saved me, or that I became so angry and feisty I’m living just to spite. No. The difference for me is that a couple psych professionals had the decency to reach out in kindness, sit briefly with my hurting soul and share their own hurting soul. Out of these moments, a beacon of faith pokes out of churning seas, a safer haven, an assurance that not every ship needs to break up on the sharp rocks.

And if other psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers are fine with a certain amount of wreckage, are content to ignore it, they’ll carry on as usual. I can scream all day to them, and I won’t be heard.

And that’s okay for me now, as long as one or two see me there bobbing along, wave hello, point out where I can help myself find refuge or smoother sailing in this choppy ocean we all call life.