Fifteen Days

It's been nearly a week since I had my first visit with my new therapist. This was my evaluation visit. I did quite a bit of thinking as I left her office that day-as I have in the days since.

There's something about being evaluated that has never set quite well with me. I equate evaluations with judgement. Having always felt judged throughout my life, evaluations are a jagged pill to swallow.

At just over an hour, this evaluation has been my 4th in less than three years (coming in at #2 for overall time spent taking my history and asking questions). Time will tell if her hour plus evaluation along with the "here's your prescription-don't let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya-see you in three weeks" has any merit. But I am giving it a chance, albeit with a fair amount of due reluctance and skepticism.

While my most recent evaluation left me slightly aggitated and uncomfortable, the evaluation which will permanently be etched into my memory as the most irresponsible, critical, judgmental cut down of my life was the 2nd one, where in probably less than fifteen minutes the psychiatrist managed to scribble down his diagnosis of major depressive disorder, acute anxiety disorder, PTSD, OCD along with possible borderline personality disorder and alcoholism. I cannot give him credit for coming up with the first four, as that information had already been provided to him. As for the latter two, his definition of borderline personality disorder is very different from the clinical definition. The clinical definition being the correct one and his-where I only see things the way I want to see them-was completely off base. I also didn't care for being referred to as an alcoholic. After all, it was only upon my own admission to using a minimal amount of alcohol in conjunction with my prescribed benzodiazepine, Klonopin (which is extremely dangerous) on and off for brief periods of time, which garnered me that label. I suppose it was a fair assessment, as much as I disliked it. Although I had never been someone who drank with any type of regularity, literally only a handful of times in my adult life, and almost always alone, when I did drink it was with a purpose. The purpose being; to become numb.

I am just now realizing I have spent more time on that last lengthy paragraph than the psychiatrist did during his fifteen minute evaluation. Admittedly, I do have a tendency to ramble, whether being with a therapist or just writing about something. I've discovered when I am feeling very emotional and misunderstood, I try desperately to explain myself without trying to sound defensive, though I am certain it comes off as being defensive. That being said, I'm not the "pass the buck" kind of person. I truly do own my faults and my mistakes and readily admit to them. What infuriates me and brings out clear defensiveness on my part is when someone implies otherwise. That is probably why that particular evaluation brought back some very harsh memories for me. The worst perhaps being when the psychiatrist made what I consider to be a highly inappropriate analogy. Based upon our brief conversation, he likened my abuse of benzodiazepines and alcohol to the behavior of a heroin addict. When I attempted to explain why I had done the things I had, he quite literally motioned me to shut up. *At this point it was 3AM. I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I was going on two days without food or sleep, missed two scheduled doses of Klonopin and had not been given anything besides a Dixie Cup of water since my adventure into rehab began at 10AM the previous morning. He followed up my hushing by insisting there was no need for me to explain anything because that was merely my attempt to justify my actions. I wasn't trying to justify anything. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I knew I needed help. That's why I made the decision to seek immediate help. I understood it was crucial to explain why I felt the need to do what I had in order to work towards resolving the problem(s). Apparently his method of treating addiction combined with a brain chemistry disorder is to not look at the individual situation and needs of the patient but to make sweeping generalizations and begin the process of recovery using degradation and condemnation.

That evaluation, which was just over a year and a half ago, and the week which followed, was the start of a steep, downward spiral for me. Just when I thought I had hit rock bottom I managed to fall even further into the abyss of deep depression and crippling anxiety. I also developed some significant physical health issues immediately after this time period which I am continuously struggling to get under control and with very little success. The last three or so months of my life have lead me to this point where I understand in no uncertain terms, this is it. I don't know when it will end or how. I only know I have been weighed down with this feeling that something very bad is about to happen and it has grown worse with each passing day. There have been other periods in my life where if this feeling had surfaced, I likely would have given it to it. But not now. I refuse. I am not going down without a fight.

Fifteen days until I meet with my new therapist. Fifteen days of wondering where she is going to want to start. Fifteen days of trying to decide what I am ready to talk about. It's going to be a long fifteen days.