It's LONG, LONG, LONG. Sorry.
That is something I am trying to do - and actually making some progress compared to where I was a few years back.
At the time I was (mis)-diagnosed as bipolar, I had a very sudden and extreme reaction, "Oh my God, it's a death sentence" - and I thought it was all over for me. In my dark thoughts, I figured it would mean loss of career, loss of home and family, loss of assets, and eventually homelessness and death on the streets in some slum, or locked up in jail or prison or a psychiatric facility. And actually, all of this was not so much for medical reasons, but out of fear of stigma, and out of self-stigma, and also out of some stuff regarding my father and his mother, both of whom had MI issues and I guess I did NOT want to be like him in any way, especially that way, because he is anathema to me, my tormentor and someone I do not mourn.
It felt very unfair and very unjust and was profoundly dehumanizing to me. I felt like nothing medical, it felt like some form of being swept up in the criminal justice system, like punishment for crimes that I didn't commit, like I was being forever removed from the world I knew. It felt hopeless. My self-beliefs before diagnosis were that I was a bad person, in the sense that I wasn't able to achieve the perfection demanded by my abuser father, but that I was a good person morally, that I contributed at least something to the world, and that I could make a difference in other people's lives. After the diagnosis day, I felt like the lowest of the low, a terrible person, I told myself I deserved my fate and that I was the scum of the earth.
I felt that my "crime" which got me there was not worthy of the punishment I received. My crime was expressing frequent suicidal thoughts, but not intent or planning. And honestly, after the fact, I was told by more than one MH professional that the sequence of events by the initial psychiatrist was inappropriate for the situation, perhaps unethical in some ways, and caused me much unnecessary trauma.
I found the initial psychiatrist to be not only incompetent - she couldn't recognize PTSD and differential from bipolar, AND, she made a 5 minute diagnosis based on a 1 page intake questionaire before I ever even said more than 3 sentences to her, AND, frankly, she was one of the meanest, rudest, least-professional individuals I have ever met, after dealing with her for about 3 - 3 1/2 months. When I realized what she was, I told her off and told her I never wanted her to ever contac me again - which she did, stupid quack, with the infamous line "I sense you are a little upset" - I guess she would have sensed that Hiroshima was a little explosion akin to a firecracker had she been there.
I also found the day hospital program degrading and frightening and extremely sad and tragic seeing the others there. Yet I found humanity and dignity in the other patients, and rooted for them in a way I denied myself. They were merely people in a bad state seeking help, nothing wrong with that at all, I was the scum of the earth being punished on Blue Cross's dime.
I so railed against the bipolar diagnosis. It terrified me medically. It terrified my socially. It just plain terrified me. It was the worst period in my life, and that is saying a lot because I've had a lot of downs in my life, my childhood was a living Hell, and I've suffered a lot from the aftermath of that. This was worse.
And I wondered and still do if that is legitimate, despite how it makes me feel. At times, I think, yeah, could be bipolar. I know I have raging PTSD, with all of the typical crap that goes with that. I could be bipolar as well, although I have never had anything resembling mania. And, what they viewed as possible hypomania at a few times in my life I just viewed as productive, up-mood periods when I was actually happy - as if that were some kind of strike against me. Like Kelly Clarkson says:
If you go, they'll say you're following
If you don't, then you're too good for them
If you smile, you must be ignorant
If you don't, what's your problem?
If you're down, so ungrateful
And if you're happy, why so selfish?
And, you can't win
No, you can't win, no
...
If you're thin, poor little walking disease
If you're not, they're all screaming obese
If you're straight, why aren't you married yet?
If you're gay, why aren't you waving a flag?
If it's wrong, you're knowing it
If it's right, you'll always miss
You can't win, no
You can't win, no
So, my world has been F'ed up ever since. Internally, emotionally, I have despaired that this worst-case scenario would come true. Externally, I've fought it, fought through the pain and the self-abuse and the fear, but not always in good ways, and in some ways that have caused me a lot of harm and prolonged my misery.
But I know now NONE of that is real. Some has come to pass in some ways, but not at all in ways that I can't get over, if only I can heal and accept and make peace with it.
I've done little things and big things. Little things like never getting off on the floor where my therapists office is if anyone else is in the elevator. Hiding my prescriptions for psychotropic drugs so no one finds them. More extreme things - I took out a PO Box initially so anything coming the mail in any way related to my diagnosis and Partial Hospital Program would NOT come to my house where others might see it. I got a second cell phone a la Walter White from Breaking Bad for the same reason. I went on a really crazy spending spree under the theory that it didn't matter because I was a walking dead man anyway, and I might as well blow it as have it taken from me. Some things worked, some didn't. My T justifies it by saying it was all about survival, but the reality is, sometimes you gotta call an a** and a** and that was what I was. Played musical psychiatrists and psychologists for a while until I found ones I liked, and to be 100% honest, who told me what I wanted to hear, although I do believe it conforms to my reality, not like they are just lying to me to appease me.
How messed up was all of that? Seriously, HOW MESSED UP WAS ALL OF THAT? Like, totally. It was a mix of incredible self-stigma, fear, paranoia and/or hypervigilence, self-pity, the crash of my self-esteem, stress, lack of sleep,
So, I need to drop all of that, as it is destroying me on a 24/7 basis. Honestly, I told my T yesterday that I would like to get to a point that I not only achieve radical acceptance, defined as admitting the reality but not liking it, but where I'm OK with it, like Eminem says, "I'm friends with the monster under my bed" (Eminem and Rihanna, 'Monster', from the Marshall Mathers LPII).
But I vacilate between the two extremes - the dark world of the "I'm a dead man walking" and the real world of "nothing that bad has actually come of this". It has been a tremendous internal fight. External factors, the chatter about mental illness in the US, have not helped, especially the aftermath of the Sandy Hook tragedy, which came just a few months after my world crumbled - and that especially filled me with dread, as some of the chatter thrown about and the actions taken amounted to a knee-jerk, pitchfork and torches attack on the mentally ill, a kind of "round them all up and throw away the keys" attitude from certain sectors of society. Especially the NRA, which proposed a national registry of anyone with any mental health issues -as if we were sex offenders or felons.
When the calmer side of myself emerges, I think now, "WHY SHOULD I?" Why should I be ashamed or embarrased or live in constant fear that the men in white coats are coming to take me away forever, or that my family will throw me out on the streets where I will die in the gutter on some frigid January night, or be murdered by some other street person? Because none of that corresponds in any way with my objective reality. No one has stigmatized me, although relatively few people know, but some of the really key people in my life do. No one has been mean to me. No one has mocked or ridiculed or shamed me for picking up a prescription of Prozac at the Costco Pharmacy. No one has done much of anthing horrible to me. Yes, there has been some family upset, yes, my finances are a mess, yes, my career has suffered because my concentration is poor, my motivation is often lacking, depression takes over, but I still have my job, and my employer has been nothing but kind, gracious, and understanding. Yet, I still try to survive, despite the suicidal thoughts and the grief and the anger, and my heart is in the right place, I am a good guy, I do good for others, I just need to get my head there, and then keep it there to the maximum extent possible.
I want to live, to thrive actually, and I need to make peace with myself, with whatever I am, and realize that I'm OK, whether I'm bipolar or just PTSD'ing or whatever.
I'm trying to make peace with the monster under my bed - make that in my own head.
That is something I am trying to do - and actually making some progress compared to where I was a few years back.
At the time I was (mis)-diagnosed as bipolar, I had a very sudden and extreme reaction, "Oh my God, it's a death sentence" - and I thought it was all over for me. In my dark thoughts, I figured it would mean loss of career, loss of home and family, loss of assets, and eventually homelessness and death on the streets in some slum, or locked up in jail or prison or a psychiatric facility. And actually, all of this was not so much for medical reasons, but out of fear of stigma, and out of self-stigma, and also out of some stuff regarding my father and his mother, both of whom had MI issues and I guess I did NOT want to be like him in any way, especially that way, because he is anathema to me, my tormentor and someone I do not mourn.
It felt very unfair and very unjust and was profoundly dehumanizing to me. I felt like nothing medical, it felt like some form of being swept up in the criminal justice system, like punishment for crimes that I didn't commit, like I was being forever removed from the world I knew. It felt hopeless. My self-beliefs before diagnosis were that I was a bad person, in the sense that I wasn't able to achieve the perfection demanded by my abuser father, but that I was a good person morally, that I contributed at least something to the world, and that I could make a difference in other people's lives. After the diagnosis day, I felt like the lowest of the low, a terrible person, I told myself I deserved my fate and that I was the scum of the earth.
I felt that my "crime" which got me there was not worthy of the punishment I received. My crime was expressing frequent suicidal thoughts, but not intent or planning. And honestly, after the fact, I was told by more than one MH professional that the sequence of events by the initial psychiatrist was inappropriate for the situation, perhaps unethical in some ways, and caused me much unnecessary trauma.
I found the initial psychiatrist to be not only incompetent - she couldn't recognize PTSD and differential from bipolar, AND, she made a 5 minute diagnosis based on a 1 page intake questionaire before I ever even said more than 3 sentences to her, AND, frankly, she was one of the meanest, rudest, least-professional individuals I have ever met, after dealing with her for about 3 - 3 1/2 months. When I realized what she was, I told her off and told her I never wanted her to ever contac me again - which she did, stupid quack, with the infamous line "I sense you are a little upset" - I guess she would have sensed that Hiroshima was a little explosion akin to a firecracker had she been there.
I also found the day hospital program degrading and frightening and extremely sad and tragic seeing the others there. Yet I found humanity and dignity in the other patients, and rooted for them in a way I denied myself. They were merely people in a bad state seeking help, nothing wrong with that at all, I was the scum of the earth being punished on Blue Cross's dime.
I so railed against the bipolar diagnosis. It terrified me medically. It terrified my socially. It just plain terrified me. It was the worst period in my life, and that is saying a lot because I've had a lot of downs in my life, my childhood was a living Hell, and I've suffered a lot from the aftermath of that. This was worse.
And I wondered and still do if that is legitimate, despite how it makes me feel. At times, I think, yeah, could be bipolar. I know I have raging PTSD, with all of the typical crap that goes with that. I could be bipolar as well, although I have never had anything resembling mania. And, what they viewed as possible hypomania at a few times in my life I just viewed as productive, up-mood periods when I was actually happy - as if that were some kind of strike against me. Like Kelly Clarkson says:
If you go, they'll say you're following
If you don't, then you're too good for them
If you smile, you must be ignorant
If you don't, what's your problem?
If you're down, so ungrateful
And if you're happy, why so selfish?
And, you can't win
No, you can't win, no
...
If you're thin, poor little walking disease
If you're not, they're all screaming obese
If you're straight, why aren't you married yet?
If you're gay, why aren't you waving a flag?
If it's wrong, you're knowing it
If it's right, you'll always miss
You can't win, no
You can't win, no
So, my world has been F'ed up ever since. Internally, emotionally, I have despaired that this worst-case scenario would come true. Externally, I've fought it, fought through the pain and the self-abuse and the fear, but not always in good ways, and in some ways that have caused me a lot of harm and prolonged my misery.
But I know now NONE of that is real. Some has come to pass in some ways, but not at all in ways that I can't get over, if only I can heal and accept and make peace with it.
I've done little things and big things. Little things like never getting off on the floor where my therapists office is if anyone else is in the elevator. Hiding my prescriptions for psychotropic drugs so no one finds them. More extreme things - I took out a PO Box initially so anything coming the mail in any way related to my diagnosis and Partial Hospital Program would NOT come to my house where others might see it. I got a second cell phone a la Walter White from Breaking Bad for the same reason. I went on a really crazy spending spree under the theory that it didn't matter because I was a walking dead man anyway, and I might as well blow it as have it taken from me. Some things worked, some didn't. My T justifies it by saying it was all about survival, but the reality is, sometimes you gotta call an a** and a** and that was what I was. Played musical psychiatrists and psychologists for a while until I found ones I liked, and to be 100% honest, who told me what I wanted to hear, although I do believe it conforms to my reality, not like they are just lying to me to appease me.
How messed up was all of that? Seriously, HOW MESSED UP WAS ALL OF THAT? Like, totally. It was a mix of incredible self-stigma, fear, paranoia and/or hypervigilence, self-pity, the crash of my self-esteem, stress, lack of sleep,
So, I need to drop all of that, as it is destroying me on a 24/7 basis. Honestly, I told my T yesterday that I would like to get to a point that I not only achieve radical acceptance, defined as admitting the reality but not liking it, but where I'm OK with it, like Eminem says, "I'm friends with the monster under my bed" (Eminem and Rihanna, 'Monster', from the Marshall Mathers LPII).
But I vacilate between the two extremes - the dark world of the "I'm a dead man walking" and the real world of "nothing that bad has actually come of this". It has been a tremendous internal fight. External factors, the chatter about mental illness in the US, have not helped, especially the aftermath of the Sandy Hook tragedy, which came just a few months after my world crumbled - and that especially filled me with dread, as some of the chatter thrown about and the actions taken amounted to a knee-jerk, pitchfork and torches attack on the mentally ill, a kind of "round them all up and throw away the keys" attitude from certain sectors of society. Especially the NRA, which proposed a national registry of anyone with any mental health issues -as if we were sex offenders or felons.
When the calmer side of myself emerges, I think now, "WHY SHOULD I?" Why should I be ashamed or embarrased or live in constant fear that the men in white coats are coming to take me away forever, or that my family will throw me out on the streets where I will die in the gutter on some frigid January night, or be murdered by some other street person? Because none of that corresponds in any way with my objective reality. No one has stigmatized me, although relatively few people know, but some of the really key people in my life do. No one has been mean to me. No one has mocked or ridiculed or shamed me for picking up a prescription of Prozac at the Costco Pharmacy. No one has done much of anthing horrible to me. Yes, there has been some family upset, yes, my finances are a mess, yes, my career has suffered because my concentration is poor, my motivation is often lacking, depression takes over, but I still have my job, and my employer has been nothing but kind, gracious, and understanding. Yet, I still try to survive, despite the suicidal thoughts and the grief and the anger, and my heart is in the right place, I am a good guy, I do good for others, I just need to get my head there, and then keep it there to the maximum extent possible.
I want to live, to thrive actually, and I need to make peace with myself, with whatever I am, and realize that I'm OK, whether I'm bipolar or just PTSD'ing or whatever.
I'm trying to make peace with the monster under my bed - make that in my own head.
