Have you ever have one of those conversations? One that makes you squirm in your seat and gives you that uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach? Yeah, those are super fun. Way. Super. Fun. Kind of like when your parents sit you down to have the sex talk (not that mine ever did - perhaps I was just so socially awkward that they didn't really feel it necessary) and afterwards you just wish you could buy all of the brain bleach the world has to offer to completely and permanently remove the conversation from your memory.
I had one of those last week. God, it sucked. They never stop sucking, really. When people who have never cared or bothered much all of a sudden start acting like they care in the most phoney way possible. I mean, really, let's just do everyone a favor and stop pretending, 'kay? It drives me crazy when people try to make my business their business without any reason to do so. I mean, I get that this blog puts a bunch of my stuff out there for other people to see. Obviously, I'm okay with that or I wouldn't be doing it. But shit, can't I still be allowed to have some privacy? I'm an adult - I can be in charge of my own life, right? I mean, support is wonderful, certainly, but I don't need someone breathing down my neck and telling me what my next move should be. I've got it covered. I'm a big girl now. I realize I'm a mess. I know I'm having an awful time with it right now. But I'm doing all the things a big girl should do to make sure she's doesn't jump right off a cliff. If it's too awkward and painful to watch, feel free to turn away. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of people out there who really, genuinely care. I'm not talking about people who really had no idea what was going on. I'm talking about people who knew and actively chose not to care. There's a huge difference.
Maybe that's why I feel like I'm perpetually 12 years-old. Perhaps it's because for some reason it feels like people often assume that I can't run my own life. I struggle, sure. Who doesn't? And I'll be the first to admit that I struggle more than a lot of people do, but I'm being pro-active about it. I'm seeing a therapist and psychiatrist - if there's anyone out there that can help with things, it's them. And maybe feeling like I am perpetually 12 years-old is why I still don't feel comfortable being an open book about things. I mean, certainly I've made myself more of an open book than I would have ever been comfortable with before, but there are still things I hide. There are still things I don't tell people about because I'm afraid of judgment. It's already hard enough for people to understand depression and anxiety and feelings of suicidality, there are just some things that are too taboo to just shove out there. There are things in my life that would be seen as too "out there" - and I'm not quite ready to tackle that just yet. And I'm not really sure those are things people are really ready to know about me either. Maybe someday...but not today. I've got to learn to figure out who I even am anymore first.
And having my old psychiatrist compare me to a toddler having a temper tantrum certainly hasn't helped matters (hence why he's my old psychiatrist). He's one of those really self-important "I am a medical God who can do no wrong" types. I once had an appointment with him where we spent probably 10 minutes with me sitting there trying to explain to him that when he saw me last I wasn't doing better. He kept arguing that I MUST have been doing better because that's what it said in his notes. Back and forth. For TEN freakin' minutes. Trying to explain to the man that I wasn't better. And every time, he would just reiterate that I must be wrong because that's not what his notes said. Finally, I was just exhausted with the ridiculousness of the conversation and said, "Look, with all due respect, I think I probably have a better grasp on how I'm doing than you do - you're basing your assessment on the 15 minutes I spent with you at my last appointment, and I'm basing mine on the fact that I'm living my life every second of every day." And he STILL argued and fed me some line about what an "astute clinician" he is and blah, blah, blah - apparently that's psychiatrist talk for "I can read minds." But yeah, telling a 30-something that her depression is akin to a three year-old throwing temper tantrums is the way freakin' wrong thing to say. Beyond that, it's completely and totally inaccurate. I've always said that I think he missed his true calling in medicine - he has all the makings of a fabulous proctologist...because he's really awesome at being an asshole.
I get that this whole process has been extraordinarily messy for me - more so than almost anyone (save a few people very close to me) really knows. I get that I'm not going through it with a great deal of poise or dignity or grace. But I *am* doing it. I'm waking up each morning and putting one foot in front of the other, whether I feel like it or not. I'm putting myself out there in ways that make me uncomfortable and vulnerable because I know that's just part of developing the connections with people that I so desperately need (shout out to Brene Brown for that one - I actually learned something from reading a book...who'd have thunk it?). I'm taking time to process things and work through them - I've got 350 pages of journal entries since mid-April to prove it (because why say in 5 words what you can say in 100...). I'm trying as hard as I know how, damn it. It's not pretty or impressive or fancy, but it's all I know - and if it gets me where I need to go, that's really all that matters. If you're looking for pretty and dignified, you're barking up the wrong tree. If you're looking for someone who is just trying to hold on and who's journey has been about as appealing as a pair of nasty, sweaty gym socks that have been ripening in the hamper for a week, then look no further.
Maybe that's why I feel like I'm perpetually 12 years-old. Perhaps it's because for some reason it feels like people often assume that I can't run my own life. I struggle, sure. Who doesn't? And I'll be the first to admit that I struggle more than a lot of people do, but I'm being pro-active about it. I'm seeing a therapist and psychiatrist - if there's anyone out there that can help with things, it's them. And maybe feeling like I am perpetually 12 years-old is why I still don't feel comfortable being an open book about things. I mean, certainly I've made myself more of an open book than I would have ever been comfortable with before, but there are still things I hide. There are still things I don't tell people about because I'm afraid of judgment. It's already hard enough for people to understand depression and anxiety and feelings of suicidality, there are just some things that are too taboo to just shove out there. There are things in my life that would be seen as too "out there" - and I'm not quite ready to tackle that just yet. And I'm not really sure those are things people are really ready to know about me either. Maybe someday...but not today. I've got to learn to figure out who I even am anymore first.
And having my old psychiatrist compare me to a toddler having a temper tantrum certainly hasn't helped matters (hence why he's my old psychiatrist). He's one of those really self-important "I am a medical God who can do no wrong" types. I once had an appointment with him where we spent probably 10 minutes with me sitting there trying to explain to him that when he saw me last I wasn't doing better. He kept arguing that I MUST have been doing better because that's what it said in his notes. Back and forth. For TEN freakin' minutes. Trying to explain to the man that I wasn't better. And every time, he would just reiterate that I must be wrong because that's not what his notes said. Finally, I was just exhausted with the ridiculousness of the conversation and said, "Look, with all due respect, I think I probably have a better grasp on how I'm doing than you do - you're basing your assessment on the 15 minutes I spent with you at my last appointment, and I'm basing mine on the fact that I'm living my life every second of every day." And he STILL argued and fed me some line about what an "astute clinician" he is and blah, blah, blah - apparently that's psychiatrist talk for "I can read minds." But yeah, telling a 30-something that her depression is akin to a three year-old throwing temper tantrums is the way freakin' wrong thing to say. Beyond that, it's completely and totally inaccurate. I've always said that I think he missed his true calling in medicine - he has all the makings of a fabulous proctologist...because he's really awesome at being an asshole.
I get that this whole process has been extraordinarily messy for me - more so than almost anyone (save a few people very close to me) really knows. I get that I'm not going through it with a great deal of poise or dignity or grace. But I *am* doing it. I'm waking up each morning and putting one foot in front of the other, whether I feel like it or not. I'm putting myself out there in ways that make me uncomfortable and vulnerable because I know that's just part of developing the connections with people that I so desperately need (shout out to Brene Brown for that one - I actually learned something from reading a book...who'd have thunk it?). I'm taking time to process things and work through them - I've got 350 pages of journal entries since mid-April to prove it (because why say in 5 words what you can say in 100...). I'm trying as hard as I know how, damn it. It's not pretty or impressive or fancy, but it's all I know - and if it gets me where I need to go, that's really all that matters. If you're looking for pretty and dignified, you're barking up the wrong tree. If you're looking for someone who is just trying to hold on and who's journey has been about as appealing as a pair of nasty, sweaty gym socks that have been ripening in the hamper for a week, then look no further.
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