I'm feeling pretty good. I've been feeling pretty good for about a week. I'm not sure what to attribute my peacefulness to at this point. I had one bad day last week though, and it was a doozy.
It was Thursday. I had a doctor's appointment in the am. I was seeing a new doctor due to the fact that my previous doctor moved to another branch of the hospital, about an hour away. I decided to see her replacement, instead of moving with her. I didn't like her very much anyway. The new doctor was interesting. She was very nice, but she had one of those soft, gentle voices. I couldn't get over the way she was talking. Almost like if I said anything, my voice sounded vulgar next to hers. She did do 2 positive things, however. One, she called another psychiatrist while I was sitting right there and made me a new appointment, and two, she gave me refills on my prescriptions. This way I don't have to call their office once a month, track down a doctor to refill my prescriptions, drive to their office to get the prescriptions, drive to the drugstore to refill my prescriptions, wait at the drugstore to have my prescriptions filled, and finally, go home. This area of the South is really archaic in the way they do some things. It was a big deal, getting this done every month. And I would be really anxious until this task was completed every month.
Now that I've went off on a tangent about my doctor's appointment, I will tell you that I felt nervous and anxious the rest of the day. My husband's aunt, who we are living with right now, decided we should have cocktails around mid-afternoon. She can only be described as "alcohol dependent". I wouldn't call her an alcoholic, but if alcohol is around she will drink it, and she will drink a lot of it. The cocktail of choice was decided to be margaritas. I don't drink tequila. I drink wine, beer, or vodka. That's it. But oh, I drank the margaritas. And another. And another. By the time my husband got home from work, I was blacked out. What's scary is I made dinner while I was blacked out. I grilled hot dogs (so not safe), and made macaroni and cheese on the stove. I remember snippets of the night, mostly of puking my guts out, some of sobering up, some of going to bed. What I do remember is the next morning. Cotton mouth, pounding headache, and a sore, achy body. A hangover from hell. My husband told me the next day that I had a meltdown while I was blacked out. Screaming at him that there was something wrong with me, I wanted to die, and I didn't want to live here anymore.
Wow. That's a lot to scream at someone. Needless to say, my husband was terrified. He didn't know what was going on. I told him the next day that I didn't mean any of those things, that I don't know where they came from. And I really don't. I mean, it's pretty obvious something is wrong with me, but like I said, I've actually been feeling really good.
So here I am, thinking about my behavior on Thursday, wondering where it came from, and how long will this feeling good last? I just don't know at this point.
Showing posts with label psychiatrist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychiatrist. Show all posts
Monday, July 16, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Looking For Answers, Found More Questions
So, my conversation with my dad last week...
It was a really, really hard conversation for me to have, but I'm glad I did it. I'm proud I finally got the courage to ask my dad the things I needed to ask. I almost backed out the morning I was supposed to have the conversation, I was one button push away from sending a text to my dad saying I couldn't talk that day. My husband talked me down however, pointing out that my dad probably had a sleepless night anticipating out conversation. He made a good point, and I went through with the phone call.
It was actually my dad that called me, and about an hour earlier than we'd discussed. We made our usual small talk, what's going on out West, and I updated him on what's going on here out East. Eventually though, I bit the bullet and asked him what I needed to know. Was he aware of any incidents that could have occurred when I was a child, with Uncle S., that I might need to know about?
I got that long pause again. It was with some hesitation that my father told me that my uncle was my primary babysitter from when I was age 1 to about 3. I was with him exclusively from 7:30 am to 5:30 pm, Monday through Friday. My dad told me that they took me out of that "situation" when they realized there may have been an "issue".
My heart sank and I felt sick. An issue? I asked. My dad said he wasn't aware of any specific events, but that him and my mom were "suspicious" something had happened. I asked him to be honest, point-blank, did he think something happened? He said yes. We continued to talk about my uncle for awhile. His drug use, his mental illness, the fact that he identified as a homosexual, and his relationship with my brother and I.
We talked for more than an hour. I felt good when we ended the conversation, mostly I think from the fact that I've been needing to have this conversation with my dad. I didn't really get any direct answers, and now I have even more questions, but for some reason, I feel better.
What's next on my bucket list? Sigh. Making an appointment with another psychiatrist. You could say I've been nursing my bruised ego from perceived "rejection", but it's time to move on in my journey.
It was a really, really hard conversation for me to have, but I'm glad I did it. I'm proud I finally got the courage to ask my dad the things I needed to ask. I almost backed out the morning I was supposed to have the conversation, I was one button push away from sending a text to my dad saying I couldn't talk that day. My husband talked me down however, pointing out that my dad probably had a sleepless night anticipating out conversation. He made a good point, and I went through with the phone call.
It was actually my dad that called me, and about an hour earlier than we'd discussed. We made our usual small talk, what's going on out West, and I updated him on what's going on here out East. Eventually though, I bit the bullet and asked him what I needed to know. Was he aware of any incidents that could have occurred when I was a child, with Uncle S., that I might need to know about?
I got that long pause again. It was with some hesitation that my father told me that my uncle was my primary babysitter from when I was age 1 to about 3. I was with him exclusively from 7:30 am to 5:30 pm, Monday through Friday. My dad told me that they took me out of that "situation" when they realized there may have been an "issue".
My heart sank and I felt sick. An issue? I asked. My dad said he wasn't aware of any specific events, but that him and my mom were "suspicious" something had happened. I asked him to be honest, point-blank, did he think something happened? He said yes. We continued to talk about my uncle for awhile. His drug use, his mental illness, the fact that he identified as a homosexual, and his relationship with my brother and I.
We talked for more than an hour. I felt good when we ended the conversation, mostly I think from the fact that I've been needing to have this conversation with my dad. I didn't really get any direct answers, and now I have even more questions, but for some reason, I feel better.
What's next on my bucket list? Sigh. Making an appointment with another psychiatrist. You could say I've been nursing my bruised ego from perceived "rejection", but it's time to move on in my journey.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Self-Sabotge?
Oh, lord. Remember how I said I had my first psychiatric appointment on the 28th? Apparently, it was not meant to be. On Tuesday night, I was going over my paperwork, making sure I had everything in order, when I found a piece of paper that said my appointment was 6/19/12. It was 6/26/12 by this point. I was shocked. I took out my calendar and my iPhone, both of which I had marked the 28th for the appointment. I called the office first thing on Wednesday morning to reschedule. A very rude receptionist told me very snidely that since I had missed my first appointed, I was basically banned from ever seeing their doctors. I explained what had happened, and the receptionist told me there was nothing she could do, and hung up the phone.
I cried, and cried, and cried. I had waited 2 months for this appointment with an excellent doctor. One who had graduated from a top-tier psychology school, and had many years in the business. The receptionist was just so... so cold. How could they talk to someone like that, especially in the business they are in? The people calling them are people that need help the most.
I was miserable the rest of the day. You are probably thinking "Big deal. Call someone else". Yes, this is the conclusion I came to, but I had a very hard time with the way I was spoken to. I've been putting off asking my parents about my "situation" until I talked to a professional. Now, something that had seemed to me was going to be a possibility in the near future, was being put on the back burner for potentially another 2 months. I couldn't handle the thought. I know I can't stay where I'm at, I have to take a step forward.
So, with some liquid courage, I called my dad on Wednesday night. With the time difference between the 2 of us, my mom was just getting home from work and I panicked. I really didn't want to talk to my mom about this just yet. I finally just told my dad (who knows I'm taking a psychiatric appointment) that I needed to talk to him about my childhood, privately, possibly tomorrow after my mom left for work.
He paused. Then he said, "So, you have questions?".
"Yes." I replied.
He exhaled. "Ok. I understand. We'll talk tomorrow".
I think I was in even more shock when I got off the phone. The fact that my dad seemed to know what I was talking about, just seemed to confirm that I was right in thinking something was up.
I cried, and cried, and cried some more. I was emotionally strung out. The "help" I thought I was getting had been yanked out from under my feet, and my dad was seemingly confirming that something happened to me as a kid. I didn't sleep much that night. Instead I had very vivid dreams, covering a vast quantity of weird shit.
It's getting late, and I'm still emotionally tired from this week's events. I'll cover the phone call between my dad and I tomorrow. One thing I've learned is that not resting causes the crazy to come out even more. It's off to bed for this girl.
I cried, and cried, and cried. I had waited 2 months for this appointment with an excellent doctor. One who had graduated from a top-tier psychology school, and had many years in the business. The receptionist was just so... so cold. How could they talk to someone like that, especially in the business they are in? The people calling them are people that need help the most.
I was miserable the rest of the day. You are probably thinking "Big deal. Call someone else". Yes, this is the conclusion I came to, but I had a very hard time with the way I was spoken to. I've been putting off asking my parents about my "situation" until I talked to a professional. Now, something that had seemed to me was going to be a possibility in the near future, was being put on the back burner for potentially another 2 months. I couldn't handle the thought. I know I can't stay where I'm at, I have to take a step forward.
So, with some liquid courage, I called my dad on Wednesday night. With the time difference between the 2 of us, my mom was just getting home from work and I panicked. I really didn't want to talk to my mom about this just yet. I finally just told my dad (who knows I'm taking a psychiatric appointment) that I needed to talk to him about my childhood, privately, possibly tomorrow after my mom left for work.
He paused. Then he said, "So, you have questions?".
"Yes." I replied.
He exhaled. "Ok. I understand. We'll talk tomorrow".
I think I was in even more shock when I got off the phone. The fact that my dad seemed to know what I was talking about, just seemed to confirm that I was right in thinking something was up.
I cried, and cried, and cried some more. I was emotionally strung out. The "help" I thought I was getting had been yanked out from under my feet, and my dad was seemingly confirming that something happened to me as a kid. I didn't sleep much that night. Instead I had very vivid dreams, covering a vast quantity of weird shit.
It's getting late, and I'm still emotionally tired from this week's events. I'll cover the phone call between my dad and I tomorrow. One thing I've learned is that not resting causes the crazy to come out even more. It's off to bed for this girl.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Where Did It All Begin?
I'm 4 days away from my first appointment with a psychiatrist, and I've pondered this thought for a long time now. Ever since I kinda, sorta put the puzzle pieces together, I've been reaching and straining to really, really put the pieces together.
It's just not that easy. What I have recovered are more like flashes of images, not actual memories that play like a movie in your mind. I want to remember, because I want to heal, but obviously my mind is not ready to concede. I know this. Sometimes at night, when I am laying in bed, waiting for the Ambien, Noritriptyline, and Hydroxyzine to kick in, I try to remember.
I have lots of memories from this time period (3-5 years of age), but none fit together in a succinct timeline. I felt a lot of fear as a kid. I remember my mom leaving me at daycare, and crying inconsolably for hours because she had left me. I remember being horribly afraid of the dark, to the point of panic if I was completely in the dark without my nightlight. I suffered from terrible nightmares as a child, dreaming about everything from ghosts, to serial killers, to killer clowns. I was convinced there was something under my bed that would grab my legs and pull me under if I got out of bed at night. My window shades in the room had to be tightly shut with no way to look in. Because, you know, if you could see in my window, the aliens would see me and take me away. I honestly believed that if I looked in the mirror at night, there would be a ghostly image of a girl who would pull me in. I still avoid mirrors at night to this day.
I remember my grandmother's (my mother's mother) house that she lived in at this time. It was right next door to my parent's house and 2 houses down, my aunt, uncle (one of my mom's brother's, the sane one), and cousins lived there. I remember my grandmother's front door, her living room, her kitchen. I also remember the room that my uncle (my mother's other brother, the not-so-sane one) lived in, the way the window was positioned, his wood bed, the furniture, his ash tray on the bedside table. I cannot, for the life of me, remember her bathroom or her living room couch. I have an image in my mind of my uncle rubbing me on her couch, but I can only feel the couch against my skin and see the couch as separate from the room. I cannot picture the room with the couch in it.
My uncle was bipolar and schizophrenic. He had a pattern of going off his meds, and disappearing for months at a time, not contacting anyone in the family to let them know where he was. He would always return, docile and completely medicated. When I was 5, my parents decided to leave the town I was born in and move 60 miles south. I remember during this time that my uncle was not allowed to contact my family. Not by phone, not by letter, and definitely not to see me or my brother. My parents told us that he was addicted to valium and until he went to rehab, he wasn't allowed to have any contact with us. I was 7 when some sort of deal was reached between my parents and my uncle. My uncle apparently went to rehab, and later moved to the town where we had moved to. I'll save this story for another time, but my uncle disappeared permanently when I was 16. Off his meds, and into a life of homelessness.
For as long as I can remember, something was amiss between my mother and her mother. They never got along, and my mom could barely stand speaking to my grandmother. My dad was the go-between, and he was actually the one who took care of my grandmother as she was dying. My mother rarely visited her mother as she was dying, and could barely bring herself to see her before she passed.
Now that I'm where I'm at, pondering what has made me the way I am, I'm wondering how there could be so much I didn't see as a child. Could my uncle have been harming me, and my parents found out? Is that why we moved? Is that why I wasn't allowed to see my uncle? If so, why would they let him back in our lives? Did my grandmother know about this? Did she know about this and not do anything, and that's what happened between my grandmother and mom? If this did happen, why didn't my parents tell me? How could they not see a link in how troubled I was, the constant headaches, the stomach problems, the drugs, the promiscuity? How could they know, and yet, let me suffer?
I'm struggling with where I am today. My grandmother is dead, I cannot ask her what happened. My mother is such an emotionally shut down person, I couldn't imagine ever asking her these questions. My dad is an intelligent and very caring person, so I imagine there will be a time in the future when we will be sitting down and discussing this. In the meantime, I will continue to wonder where it all started. I will continue to reach for memories, despite the fact my mind tells me I don't want to remember. I just have to know. I just have to.
It's just not that easy. What I have recovered are more like flashes of images, not actual memories that play like a movie in your mind. I want to remember, because I want to heal, but obviously my mind is not ready to concede. I know this. Sometimes at night, when I am laying in bed, waiting for the Ambien, Noritriptyline, and Hydroxyzine to kick in, I try to remember.
I have lots of memories from this time period (3-5 years of age), but none fit together in a succinct timeline. I felt a lot of fear as a kid. I remember my mom leaving me at daycare, and crying inconsolably for hours because she had left me. I remember being horribly afraid of the dark, to the point of panic if I was completely in the dark without my nightlight. I suffered from terrible nightmares as a child, dreaming about everything from ghosts, to serial killers, to killer clowns. I was convinced there was something under my bed that would grab my legs and pull me under if I got out of bed at night. My window shades in the room had to be tightly shut with no way to look in. Because, you know, if you could see in my window, the aliens would see me and take me away. I honestly believed that if I looked in the mirror at night, there would be a ghostly image of a girl who would pull me in. I still avoid mirrors at night to this day.
I remember my grandmother's (my mother's mother) house that she lived in at this time. It was right next door to my parent's house and 2 houses down, my aunt, uncle (one of my mom's brother's, the sane one), and cousins lived there. I remember my grandmother's front door, her living room, her kitchen. I also remember the room that my uncle (my mother's other brother, the not-so-sane one) lived in, the way the window was positioned, his wood bed, the furniture, his ash tray on the bedside table. I cannot, for the life of me, remember her bathroom or her living room couch. I have an image in my mind of my uncle rubbing me on her couch, but I can only feel the couch against my skin and see the couch as separate from the room. I cannot picture the room with the couch in it.
My uncle was bipolar and schizophrenic. He had a pattern of going off his meds, and disappearing for months at a time, not contacting anyone in the family to let them know where he was. He would always return, docile and completely medicated. When I was 5, my parents decided to leave the town I was born in and move 60 miles south. I remember during this time that my uncle was not allowed to contact my family. Not by phone, not by letter, and definitely not to see me or my brother. My parents told us that he was addicted to valium and until he went to rehab, he wasn't allowed to have any contact with us. I was 7 when some sort of deal was reached between my parents and my uncle. My uncle apparently went to rehab, and later moved to the town where we had moved to. I'll save this story for another time, but my uncle disappeared permanently when I was 16. Off his meds, and into a life of homelessness.
For as long as I can remember, something was amiss between my mother and her mother. They never got along, and my mom could barely stand speaking to my grandmother. My dad was the go-between, and he was actually the one who took care of my grandmother as she was dying. My mother rarely visited her mother as she was dying, and could barely bring herself to see her before she passed.
Now that I'm where I'm at, pondering what has made me the way I am, I'm wondering how there could be so much I didn't see as a child. Could my uncle have been harming me, and my parents found out? Is that why we moved? Is that why I wasn't allowed to see my uncle? If so, why would they let him back in our lives? Did my grandmother know about this? Did she know about this and not do anything, and that's what happened between my grandmother and mom? If this did happen, why didn't my parents tell me? How could they not see a link in how troubled I was, the constant headaches, the stomach problems, the drugs, the promiscuity? How could they know, and yet, let me suffer?
I'm struggling with where I am today. My grandmother is dead, I cannot ask her what happened. My mother is such an emotionally shut down person, I couldn't imagine ever asking her these questions. My dad is an intelligent and very caring person, so I imagine there will be a time in the future when we will be sitting down and discussing this. In the meantime, I will continue to wonder where it all started. I will continue to reach for memories, despite the fact my mind tells me I don't want to remember. I just have to know. I just have to.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
8 More Days
It will be 8 more days before my first official psychiatrist appointment. I'm feeling bittersweet over this. Happy because I feel like I'm drowning here, but slightly saddened that I'm so obviously not normal. Normal people don't have sick, twisted thoughts like I do. Normal people don't have panic attacks. Normal people don't thoughtfully touch a knife, thinking about one little cut, and then using all their willpower not to. Normal people don't have weeks that they mope around the house, having crying jags, and thinking that absolutely everything is hopeless.
I don't know what a psychiatrist is going to do for me, I don't know how they can help me. A large part of me is screaming that I will always be broken, there isn't anything anyone can do. This part of me wants to cancel my appointment, and keep what's happened to me a secret. I dread sharing anything about myself with anyone. I don't know how I'm going to find the words to say to a doctor what has happened to me. I can't even accept what has happened to me, how can I tell someone else what is only a suspicion in my mind? I can picture myself opening my mouth, closing it because I can't say what I want to say, and my cheeks turning very, very red. Even when I talk to my husband about this, I have a hard time saying it out loud. If I do manage to get the words out of my mouth, a wave of sickening feeling washes over me. Dread. I've always been this way, and I will always be this way. But there is a small part of me that is holding out hope. Hope that the emptiness inside of me could go away.
I've been feeling especially low for a couple of days while living with the husband's aunt. She makes us feel like children. Before she left for work today, she told my husband to take a shower if he works in the yard because she doesn't want him sitting dirty on her furniture. Umm, we are adults here. Last night, I got lectured for a good 10 minutes on how to properly clean a crock pot. This does not serve well for my self-esteem. Back when I was working (it's been about one and a half years since I quit working) I was a perfectionist. I hated being corrected at work, my supervisor could tell me something once, and I would always remember. I would go out of my way to make sure all my work was far and away the best, and then wait around like a lost puppy for my praise. When the aunt is lecturing me, she is beating the thought into me that I'm not perfect. That I'm a burden to her. That I'm worthless. That she can't wait to get me out of here.
Realistically, I don't think she actually thinks those things about me. But, that's how she makes me feel. I've already noticed that I feel pretty relaxed during the day when she is at work, and then completely anxious while she is home. I'm afraid to make a step, any step, for fear it's the wrong one. I'm guessing this is not the most healthy situation for me to be living in. Everyday, I just hope the home is done soon and I can get back to my environment. It's such a toss up for me, because I'm anxious here, but I'm also anxious at my mother-in-law's house. There's nowhere we can stay that I won't be anxious.
Argh! I'm feeling very frustrated today. It's going to be a long day.
I don't know what a psychiatrist is going to do for me, I don't know how they can help me. A large part of me is screaming that I will always be broken, there isn't anything anyone can do. This part of me wants to cancel my appointment, and keep what's happened to me a secret. I dread sharing anything about myself with anyone. I don't know how I'm going to find the words to say to a doctor what has happened to me. I can't even accept what has happened to me, how can I tell someone else what is only a suspicion in my mind? I can picture myself opening my mouth, closing it because I can't say what I want to say, and my cheeks turning very, very red. Even when I talk to my husband about this, I have a hard time saying it out loud. If I do manage to get the words out of my mouth, a wave of sickening feeling washes over me. Dread. I've always been this way, and I will always be this way. But there is a small part of me that is holding out hope. Hope that the emptiness inside of me could go away.
I've been feeling especially low for a couple of days while living with the husband's aunt. She makes us feel like children. Before she left for work today, she told my husband to take a shower if he works in the yard because she doesn't want him sitting dirty on her furniture. Umm, we are adults here. Last night, I got lectured for a good 10 minutes on how to properly clean a crock pot. This does not serve well for my self-esteem. Back when I was working (it's been about one and a half years since I quit working) I was a perfectionist. I hated being corrected at work, my supervisor could tell me something once, and I would always remember. I would go out of my way to make sure all my work was far and away the best, and then wait around like a lost puppy for my praise. When the aunt is lecturing me, she is beating the thought into me that I'm not perfect. That I'm a burden to her. That I'm worthless. That she can't wait to get me out of here.
Realistically, I don't think she actually thinks those things about me. But, that's how she makes me feel. I've already noticed that I feel pretty relaxed during the day when she is at work, and then completely anxious while she is home. I'm afraid to make a step, any step, for fear it's the wrong one. I'm guessing this is not the most healthy situation for me to be living in. Everyday, I just hope the home is done soon and I can get back to my environment. It's such a toss up for me, because I'm anxious here, but I'm also anxious at my mother-in-law's house. There's nowhere we can stay that I won't be anxious.
Argh! I'm feeling very frustrated today. It's going to be a long day.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Inaugural Post
Again, I don't even know where to start.
I just know I have to. I'm in a rough spot right now, consumed by "memories" of what happened. Yet I don't know if these are memories, or stuff I made up in my head. I've always been a writer, doing this is the only thing I know how to do. I don't even have diagnosis to give you for what I am. I haven't even started.
I'm meeting with a psychiatrist at the end of the month. This is my first time ever. Will they give me a diagnosis? I don't know.
What prompted all this? Oh, it's been a long time coming. I've had a headache every.single.day since I was 16. I've seen doctors and neurologists, had cat scans and MRI's, and yet, no answer. I've been on drugs for many years. Has this gotten rid of the headaches? No.
I'm living in a state with very poor healthcare now. My doctor has grown tired of seeing me, and has no advice or medicine to help me. I'd seen her twice when she wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist for my headaches. You know what's funny? I'd never had a doctor suggest this before. Why didn't they? From the research I've done on the internet, chronic headaches are not only a symptom of depression, but a symptom of abuse.
Why, oh why, have I never connected the dots? I'm living in a state of confusion these days. I wish I'd been able to see a psychiatrist before the end of this month, but that's when they could get me in. I've got to keep dealing for a couple of weeks now, all by myself. Yes, I've told my husband what's going on, but he's no therapist. While he does give me unconditional love and support (which I'm sooooo thankful for), he can't help me sort through this.
Only a couple more weeks. Sigh.
I just know I have to. I'm in a rough spot right now, consumed by "memories" of what happened. Yet I don't know if these are memories, or stuff I made up in my head. I've always been a writer, doing this is the only thing I know how to do. I don't even have diagnosis to give you for what I am. I haven't even started.
I'm meeting with a psychiatrist at the end of the month. This is my first time ever. Will they give me a diagnosis? I don't know.
What prompted all this? Oh, it's been a long time coming. I've had a headache every.single.day since I was 16. I've seen doctors and neurologists, had cat scans and MRI's, and yet, no answer. I've been on drugs for many years. Has this gotten rid of the headaches? No.
I'm living in a state with very poor healthcare now. My doctor has grown tired of seeing me, and has no advice or medicine to help me. I'd seen her twice when she wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist for my headaches. You know what's funny? I'd never had a doctor suggest this before. Why didn't they? From the research I've done on the internet, chronic headaches are not only a symptom of depression, but a symptom of abuse.
Why, oh why, have I never connected the dots? I'm living in a state of confusion these days. I wish I'd been able to see a psychiatrist before the end of this month, but that's when they could get me in. I've got to keep dealing for a couple of weeks now, all by myself. Yes, I've told my husband what's going on, but he's no therapist. While he does give me unconditional love and support (which I'm sooooo thankful for), he can't help me sort through this.
Only a couple more weeks. Sigh.
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