Labels

Mental Health Mondays: MY THERAPIST INSULTED ME



It started out like any other therapy session. Melfi calling me into her office, the basic pleasantries we exchange before we take our seats and she asks me what happened during the week she last saw me. I told her that I didn't show up hung over this time so that was an improvement to the past four weeks sessions and she smiled at that. She shared her personal things, while I nodded and providing the lowest level of response possible.
She asked me what I was up to and I told her that I was continuing with the blog when I was able to pull something together when I could hold my concentration for 2-3 hours and do something. I informed her that I was still looking for work outside the house as well as selling my books, still not finding any level of success that I'd planned out for myself. I expressed my discomfort, anger, disappointment and lack of understanding in what was occurring in areas that I couldn't see. I expressed needing to look at other avenues to possibly pursue this if it's at all worth it. I couldn't decide if it was worth it when we were speaking and I still don't know.  Maybe, maybe not.  Melfi asked me what kind of work that I'd been looking for and I told her every possible thing. Literally. I've put in for overnight bakery, stock boy, cleaning toilets, housekeeping, dog walker. I landed 4 interviews this year. 4. I told her I'm crestfallen at this and that it has to be something wrong with me. "Dan, do you write a resume or cover letter?" "Yes, I have. I've never been fired and have worked on things steadily for at least 5 years. I've supplied personal and professional references. I show up on time or 15 minutes early." "Maybe it's your appearance." "I don't dress like this when I show up to an interview. I wear ironed trousers, nice shoes, presentable top or a nice shirt." "Maybe it's the tattoos." 
Always the fucking tattoos. "I cover them or make sure that the employers don't care about the tattoos that I have." "You don't have the appearance the employers are looking for. I'm going to give you this advice. Get a different haircut. Get a real man's haircut." I baulked at that. "This is a man's haircut." "No, it's not. I'm talking about a real man's haircut. Wear some nice slacks, button down shirt. Basically, dress like a basic white guy. If you want to be a man, this is what you have to do." Excuse me? It's like she doesn't really take me seriously. I know she says she does, but it all seems like a giant stream of bullshit. I get the feeling that she doesn't want me or like me, but I'm stupid and stick with her. So she insulted my self-image and basically my gender identity/transition and then swiftly kicked me in the crotch when I was down on the floor begging for mercy.  

"I really don't know what to do anymore. They never call me back if I even get a callback." "I know it's hard, it's a struggle...." She tells me about her husband's struggle with it, then "I'm going to be straight with you here, appearance really is everything. Employer's don't like overweight people.  It doesn't give off a good impression." I'm telling her that I'm in complete despair, I don't want to try anymore, I can't really get out of bed most days and that I'm at my witts end with everyone and she chooses to say that? What the everlasting fuck? Was this some kind of perverse joke? My brain went fuzzy as the words tumbled out of her mouth while she back peddled. She must have seen the look on my face because her back peddling was, "Well, I could do it too. Get out there and exercise more, burn off calories." I do 30-60 minutes every other day of activity, on the days when I'm the most depressed I manage 20 minutes, maybe 30 but I put in the effort and these days I'm not keeping all that much down. It's clear to me that she hadn't listened or even noticed that I shy away from anything related to weight or size. Surely, the other therapist that I see mentioned that I can't even look at the scale when they weigh me at med-check every few months. Did they read the notes my GP made "history of bulimic tendencies?" I back peddled on that, too ashamed to admit, that I, a man, a boy, was struck with a female, girl illness. I've come to terms that it's not one; it's a serious illness that isn't defined by gender and my gender doesn't dictate if I'm sick enough to qualify for the label of the diagnosis or if I'm worthy of help or not. She's just gone and make everything so much worse. I thought it wasn't possible to hate myself any more than I did, but she managed to help me down to an entirely new low. I'm really hoping that I don't wake up in the morning. 

I had to put my sunglasses on as I left the building so no one would see I was crying. I had to kind of hold it together on the ride home because I couldn't be crying in public and creating a scene that I can't handle. I thought I was doing to enterally drown, even though I know it's not possible to drown by holding one's tears in. As soon as I got home, I collapsed. I crawled into bed and just let loose. I cried until I was gasping for breath. Then the phone rang and it was her reminding me of the appointment we have next week. How the FUCK could she think I'd want to go back to see her after what she said to me? About how blatantly reckless her words were? I just feel like I'm not worth anything at all. It feels like she doesn't give a flying shart about me and that it's just another bug fuck you to me.
I don't even want to go to the med check that I have on Wednesday. I just want to be let the fuck alone. No more drugs that don't work. No more theories and tests with medications. I'll talk about that more on the next psychopharmacology check. I didn't bother to write about the last one because I forgot most of it because I went and got drunk after it and drank for another two days I think it was after trying to forget. 

And I'm just sitting here staring at my dinner, her words swirling through me. I feel nauseous and it's like I'm about to dry heave at the sight of food. I don't even know why I made it; probably to keep up appearance for my sister. Or maybe I just want to torture myself. I've always been a masochist, as well as a sadist but we'll get back to that later,  I still can't get my mind around why she'd even say something like that! She claims to be so open and liberal and understanding and accepting then she smacks me with this shit? Judgement-free zone my dickhole. So thank you, for failing to help me once again and for making me feel even more like microwaved dog shite. 



Having this blog, talking about my struggles with mental illness has been kind of cathartic for me. It's helping me come to terms with being ill and not feeling the shame that I always constantly felt about having something wrong with me. I've met a few people through the blog who've said my words have helped them, that they've found someone to relate to and made them feel less alone, which is amazing. It started as a way to vent, then a support system for me. I hope to continue writing these open and honest stories and struggles with those who read the blog. 

LINKS 

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts