Wherein Dr. Mean Old Lady Saves My Sanity

Lets Go I Want to Go All the Way to the Horizon by bethan on flickr

under Creative Commons license

Well, two things have happened in the last month: I celebrated my 7th Rebirthday and got an award for writing about PPD. Considering I've only written 11 posts this year, it's a wonder anyone knows I exist at all. C'est la vie. Fellow anonymous bloggers know that sometimes one's Real Life is overwhelming and all too-consuming to think about what one would like to write for oneself. In real language, I haven't been writing because the only shit on my mind is too personal and too identifying for me and the ones I love. It's been a crummy year, but things might be looking up. Everyone else seems to have their crap figured out and settled now and I can tip-toe back into blog world.

About the Rebirthday. I knew it was coming and on the morning of, I went outside and told Bowser, "Hey, you know what today is? It's my 7th Rebirthday." He said the same thing he does every year, "I'm glad you're still here." Every year he makes me cry when he says that. I went on to say that Seven is a big number. A child is considered to have hit the age of Reason when he or she turns seven; a marriage is considered to be getting on in years by the 7th anniversary, hence the Seven Year Itch; and the number 7 has great significance in social and religious circles, sacred even. Plus, I like seven 'cuz I have a thing about prime numbers.

I decided that since I'm supposed to be all reasonable now and I'm itchy to return to Sophie in the Moonlight's journey (don't you love it when I refer to myself in the 3rd person;)   ) I would attempt to continue the story of the Horrible Month. The last time I was writing about this was a year and, wait for it, seven months ago. I thought I was ready, but truth is, it was still too raw to share. I am transcribing it directly from the journal I kept immediately after waking up from Dropping My Basket. So, I went to a quiet place on Sunday and started transcribing again. I've come to agree that seven is the Age of Reason for I am much more reasonable while re-reading and recording here what I wrote then; I barely flinched and definitely did not come close to crying. It's been so long since I've written about this tumultuous time that I STRONGLY encourage new and newish readers to go to the side bar to your right to the section to where it says "The Horrible Month: a Series" and read from the beginning, otherwise none of this will make any sense. If you just need a quick refresher, take the jumps from the links above and read the journal entry immediately preceding this one, Alone in My Own Storm.

Day 11
8.27.03


I met with Dr. Mean Old Lady today. First impression is that she is exactly what I need: very no-nonsense straight forward Active Therapist – you know, versus the Oh Look at Me Saving the World therapists who Don’t Help You Work Things Out because they are too busy feeling full of their altruism. Dr. Mean Old Lady reminds me of an older version of my high school therapist who cared for me when I got out of my one month stint in the pediatric Psych ward post-suicide attempt #2 after I ran away from “home”. Thank you, Goddess, for this gift of possible sanity.


Dr. Mean Old Lady went beyond my primary care physician’s cautionary, “It’s certainly plausible that Depo-provera aggravated your depression” to say that it certainly did. She told me she NEVER ever lets her patients take this birth control because it is a mood de-stabilizer.


The only way I can describe what happened the night before and the day I Dropped My Basket is that I was already depressed and I felt like I got another depression on top of it and then my brain shut down. She totally understood the metaphor and said what happened in that situation is that I became emotionally disengaged and could not control myself. And That was caused by the Depo interacting with the anti-depressants.


I came to the appointment with my family tree all written down and a list of my life’s Significant Events to save us both time. I told her that I wasn’t interested in wasting my time with her on past events from my childhood or in going over the dynamics of depression and PTSD. I’ve already spent almost 4 years in therapy going over those. Instead, I also gave her my list of the six Questions and a seventh regarding how to help facilitate my family’s healing. We talked about the Questions as treatment goals and she felt they were well-thought out, clear, direct, and reasonable. So we agreed on them.


I also gave her a copy of my notarized contract and she believed the sincerity and feelings of honor behind it. Good, it’s in a safe place. I can’t begin to explain how serious I am about that contract – it is everything I say it is. Thoughts of self-harm will never again cross my mind. That avenue has become inconceivable to me.


Then we talked about Partial Hospitalization and she asked if I was interested in it. I answered her question with a question: now that she had seen my goals, did she think Partial would help me meet them? Unequivocally Yes. Good, then sign me up. So she is going to call up the hospital and make the referral and I’ll get in immediately if there is an open slot or wait until there is one. Either way I’m looking forward to it!!!!!!!


We also talked about current family dynamics and the anger and protectiveness surrounding them. She wants Bowser to come to my appointment next Friday (which is the anniversary of the day we met) so we can work on family reconciliation.


She thinks I am too harsh on myself in response to my actions and reminded me of the whole compassionate rationalization thing. “How would I treat Cloe if she was going through this?” I’d be sad, but supportive. “Well then,” she said, “treat yourself the same way.”


Lastly I brought up the Smith Diagnostic Team’s (Smith = Bowser’s family, Team means his family plus their I’m Not A Doctor but I’ve Met Quite a Few in my Time, Therefore I’m Qualified to Diagnose Psychiatric Conditions friend, Jenn) assessment that I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). I told her that I had researched it objectively with the idea in mind that I needed to fix whatever my problem is, but that the shoe doesn’t fit no matter how viciously I look at my self. PTDS and depression I fit 4 out of 5 criteria for each. BPD I fit maybe 2 or 3 out of the 9 criteria.


Furthermore, I’ve been in therapy for a total of 4 years, taken tons of personality tests including the MMPI and Rorschach’s and the answer has always been the same: depression related to past trauma. I told her my primary care physician doesn’t think I have BPD either.


Her response? Who cares what they think? I can’t allow myself to start dancing with them over this. Fuck it. I know it’s an incorrect diagnosis by (well-meaning?) laypersons and possibly some in the medical field who have never met me clinically, and that is all that matters. She grabbed the DSM-IV and looked outside and said, “I could take this book out there and diagnose anyone I met with half the stuff in here. How does that do anyone any good?”


I really like her.


She also said that in this state, custody of Luigi cannot be taken from me over such things as have happened. ::::Sigh:::: of relief.


Now, after our meeting I had Two Huge Epiphanies today:


1. I don’t need anyone’s permission to be alive. I always thought I did.


2. The answer to Question One: How do I put my 6 year old self to rest so that she doesn’t feel so responsible and blame herself for everything? is my 6 year old self needs a mother. That is all she has ever needed. And I have finally reached a point in my life where I am a mother ~ and a darn good one at that. I can mother that child and soothe her and let her go back to childhood to play. I can release her from the fearsome amount of responsibility that she feels. She is too young to be responsible for such grown-up matters.


Tomorrow I am going to write her a letter and tell her just that.