How about the one-and-only time I went to a therapist? It was in grad school, in a department that had only 5 full-time professors and 2 or 3 part-timers. You'd think it would make the politics less, but isntead it just made them more concentrated. My advisor was fine at times, crazy at others and when I took an informal poll of the students in the museum studies program, all of whom had her as their advisor, 75% of us admitted to having visited the university's counseling center at least once during the past two years.
Anyway. I was struggling with having three relatives including my father plus two pets die during the past 3 or so years, plus attempting to please an unpleasable advisor, plus dealing with not having any clue if I was going to be able to be employed, and I'd been coming to the conclusion over the past 3 years that I had depression. Not the transient kind you get from grief, the more permanent kind. I wasn't flunking out of grad school, but wasn't doing anywher near as well as I could. I even, in a serious fug one night, held a knife to my wrist - I was never in any danger of suicide, but it was because I couldn't feel anything and the sharp edge of the knife was a sensation, not even pain, that I could focus on. I tried self-treating with phenylalanine which actually worked well - I had energy and bounce, so much that I had to move and once even went for a walk in the middle of a blizzard because I had to get out of the apartment. I had to stop taking it because the side effects (constipation, ugh) were too bad and I sunk back into the funk.
So. I finally, after taking far too many magazine quizzes about depression and getting scores of the "You need to call a doctor RIGHT NOW" type, made an appointment at the counseling service. I went in and explained my problems, that I thought I had depression, that I'd self-treated and a chemical thing helped me but the side effects made it suck, and the counselor nodded sympathetically and murmered stuff like "That's a lot of death."
And then, when I was done explainign everything, asked, "So why is it important to you to be diagnosed with depression?"
Er, what?
"So why is it important to you to be diagnosed with depression?"
Uh........
"So why is it important to you to be diagnosed with depression?"
This is something I literally had no answer for, because it never occurred to me that there was a possibility I would be accused of making it up for attention. Or drugs. Or whatever. I argued a bit about what I did and how I thought it was a chemical imbalance - I remember pointing out that I went out for a walk in a blizzard on phenylalanine, for fuck's sake, and she said that perhaps I felt better because I was getting more exercise. (Except that the feeling better happened BEFORE the fucking exercise, bitch!)
Anyway, she had me sign a "I will not commit suicide!" agreement (I was not fucking suicidal), worked out some things I could do when I was feeling down (i.e. messing with my hair, going to the bookstore, etc. all of which I already fucking did), and role-played confronting my advisor about the problems with the program during the exit interview that the department had with each graduating student.
And you want to know how bloody useless that last bit was? The counseler played my advisor as if she were a sane, rational woman. I knew whan I was doing it that it was a waste of time because she wouldn't react that way and if I attempted to tell the advisor anything that I said to the counselor, I'd end up in tears in the advisor's office again.
Anyway, so I used up all my courage points on seeing her, and therefore never went to a counselor again even in the years after grad school when I was even more depressed and digging my way into debt because I couldn't stop spending. I eventually got out of it, but GAH.
Over 15 years ago and I still want to meet her and punch her in the fucking face.
Good: not a "real" therapist, but one of the psychiatric nurses I saw for my follow-ups for the ADHD meds. We were in the middle of our session where we were talking and seeing if the meds seemed to be doing good and if they needed to be adjusted when another nurse knocked on the door, stuck her head around it, and said "[name], we need you right now." She excused herself and left. About ten minutes later she came back and said "Someone had a crisis. I apologize for interrupting your session, but you know I'd do the same for you if you needed it." That felt really comforting, even though I'd already sussed out that was probably what was happening, and I had a book with me to read. It also made me a lot more forgiving when I was called in late for my appointment, because it made me think that they were spending as much time as they needed with the patients and not just being disrepsectful of our time.
Funny: The very first appointment I had at that place, when I took a long test and talked with a different psychiatric nurse before getting in to talk to the doctor who ran the practice and gave the official diagnosis. She took me into a room and said "Don't worry if you see things moving in the air vents. You're not hallucinating: there really are things moving in there." Which did make me idly wonder if I was hallucinating, because I couldn't see anything moving in there! (But it was reassuring that if I was troubled with hallucinations that in that case I wasn't having any. :))
Oooh, I forgot something else the bad one did: I was also complaining about how I procrastinated so badly that I was starting papers -- in grad school -- the night before they were due, and such. She suggested "Maybe that's just the way you work." Well, as was diagnosed much, much later, no, it wasn't just the way I worked, it was rampaging ADHD causing me to be unable to perform except under extreme pressure.*
I think she wanted to make me feel better about it, but when I start a paper due at 8AM at 10PM the night before it's not just the way I work, there's something much worse going on there, and making me feel better about it is not helping the actual problem.
* It is a point of pride that I never turned a paper in late. I even once took my grad school roommate to the ER and sat in the waiting room typing away on my laptop and turned the paper in the next morning.
Anyway. I was struggling with having three relatives including my father plus two pets die during the past 3 or so years, plus attempting to please an unpleasable advisor, plus dealing with not having any clue if I was going to be able to be employed, and I'd been coming to the conclusion over the past 3 years that I had depression. Not the transient kind you get from grief, the more permanent kind. I wasn't flunking out of grad school, but wasn't doing anywher near as well as I could. I even, in a serious fug one night, held a knife to my wrist - I was never in any danger of suicide, but it was because I couldn't feel anything and the sharp edge of the knife was a sensation, not even pain, that I could focus on. I tried self-treating with phenylalanine which actually worked well - I had energy and bounce, so much that I had to move and once even went for a walk in the middle of a blizzard because I had to get out of the apartment. I had to stop taking it because the side effects (constipation, ugh) were too bad and I sunk back into the funk.
So. I finally, after taking far too many magazine quizzes about depression and getting scores of the "You need to call a doctor RIGHT NOW" type, made an appointment at the counseling service. I went in and explained my problems, that I thought I had depression, that I'd self-treated and a chemical thing helped me but the side effects made it suck, and the counselor nodded sympathetically and murmered stuff like "That's a lot of death."
And then, when I was done explainign everything, asked, "So why is it important to you to be diagnosed with depression?"
Er, what?
"So why is it important to you to be diagnosed with depression?"
Uh........
"So why is it important to you to be diagnosed with depression?"
This is something I literally had no answer for, because it never occurred to me that there was a possibility I would be accused of making it up for attention. Or drugs. Or whatever. I argued a bit about what I did and how I thought it was a chemical imbalance - I remember pointing out that I went out for a walk in a blizzard on phenylalanine, for fuck's sake, and she said that perhaps I felt better because I was getting more exercise. (Except that the feeling better happened BEFORE the fucking exercise, bitch!)
Anyway, she had me sign a "I will not commit suicide!" agreement (I was not fucking suicidal), worked out some things I could do when I was feeling down (i.e. messing with my hair, going to the bookstore, etc. all of which I already fucking did), and role-played confronting my advisor about the problems with the program during the exit interview that the department had with each graduating student.
And you want to know how bloody useless that last bit was? The counseler played my advisor as if she were a sane, rational woman. I knew whan I was doing it that it was a waste of time because she wouldn't react that way and if I attempted to tell the advisor anything that I said to the counselor, I'd end up in tears in the advisor's office again.
Anyway, so I used up all my courage points on seeing her, and therefore never went to a counselor again even in the years after grad school when I was even more depressed and digging my way into debt because I couldn't stop spending. I eventually got out of it, but GAH.
Over 15 years ago and I still want to meet her and punch her in the fucking face.
Reply
Funny: The very first appointment I had at that place, when I took a long test and talked with a different psychiatric nurse before getting in to talk to the doctor who ran the practice and gave the official diagnosis. She took me into a room and said "Don't worry if you see things moving in the air vents. You're not hallucinating: there really are things moving in there." Which did make me idly wonder if I was hallucinating, because I couldn't see anything moving in there! (But it was reassuring that if I was troubled with hallucinations that in that case I wasn't having any. :))
Reply
I think she wanted to make me feel better about it, but when I start a paper due at 8AM at 10PM the night before it's not just the way I work, there's something much worse going on there, and making me feel better about it is not helping the actual problem.
* It is a point of pride that I never turned a paper in late. I even once took my grad school roommate to the ER and sat in the waiting room typing away on my laptop and turned the paper in the next morning.
Reply
Leave a comment