What's Next?
Almost every
day I wake up and I hate it, sorry I’m conscious, resenting the hours ahead of thinking
and being in this apartment box, and even that the cat needs food, and doing my
own basic care, and that I feel this way again, again, again. Even on rare days,
when I come to with optimism, some excitement about the day, I don’t trust it.
It’s probably an upswing, the start of an overly active period that will shrink
away into darkness. Or, I’ll hit a wall,
break into a million pieces, once more to pick up, once more to glue back into
some fashion of myself.
Some would advise that I need psychiatric assistance. I’ve been through that already.
Not that I
don’t run that around my pessimistic mind, head still on my pillow, trying to
convince myself that helpful psychiatry exists, in my geographic area, that accepts
my current healthcare coverage.
Make a
plan! Make a budget and start leafing through who is out there and calling and
making appointments and before you know it
some psychiatrist,
with
great passion and competence,
and
regard for all the adverse effects of drugs,
and
respect for checking with your dermatologist about which ones might set off leukocytoclastic vasculitis again,
or
further exacerbate weight gain, metabolic and general lethargy,
or
self-harm feelings that led to nearly monthly psychiatric inpatient detentions
previously,
this
psychiatrist, will appear, like a shining star, a beacon of hope in the foggy
grey aura of your current existence.
I wish my
optimistically pessimist self really believed that, but the pessimist draws on
a lot of experience with psychiatry that not only failed to pull me from the
mire of misery, but further added to my fears, self-doubt, and hopes of sustaining
an acceptable quality of life.
And yet, my
optimist side argues that I’ve seen and interacted with psychiatrists online
who seem to understand what I’ve been through the past 40 years. I respect them,
glad they’re out there practicing and educating fellow clinicians in more
humane ways to approach and handle patients.
But where
does that leave me?
I must
overcome that I essentially don’t trust psychiatrists and that I don’t have
resources for attempting to employ a potentially good one to get me on track.
I’m angry
that so much bad care is tolerated in psychiatric treatment settings, outright
abuse I’ve witnessed and experienced, where patients are insulted, restrained,
warehoused, disregarded, and stripped of dignity, rights, and health. I’m also
mad about both professionals and the general public who turn away from all
this, not wanting to hear what they claim are the rude, noisy voices of just a
few. They’re not realizing that “just a few” is multitudes, not aware that many
patients don’t even talk about the hurt, preferring to stuff into a hole,
hoping it stays there muffled forever.
I’m deeply scarred
by horrible treatment I faced. But I’m a white, reasonably physically intact,
born in the Midwest USA woman. My bad experiences don’t even compare to that of
black or brown people, or those who don’t speak English well, or those with no
means of communication on psych wards because a sign language interpreter is
rarely there, or those who can’t navigate hallways to socialize because certain
mobility aids aren’t allowed, or those hospitalized long-term so far away from
loved ones, they never have visitors.
And I’m so pissed
off that human resources and mental health advocacy mostly exist not for the benefit
of patients, but to protect the liability of and promote those administering
and administrating psychiatric treatment.
My
bedraggled little self eventually raises up out of the bed and knows the
secrets mental health treatment tries to tuck away neatly under the guise of
helping the seriously mentally ill. I know. I’ve seen for myself. I have
flashes of it whether my eyes are closed or open.
I may need help but it’s like asking me to drag myself over the glass shards of past treatment and cruelty I’ve seen toward patients, with this ravaged body, in another bid at actual benefit.
