I knew I was going to get my butt nailed to the wall when I went to see my psychiatrist and my med nurse earlier today. Two strikes against me: I hadn’t been taking meds consistently, and because I had been riding a high when I started going to the gym a few months ago, I had suggested previously that my meds might be reduced.
Now, the clarifications:
I had missed doses from forgetting, not the tired old “oh, I feel great, therefore I’m going to stop taking my meds.” Second, I wasn’t suggesting I go off them entirely– my point was that going to the gym had regulated my sleep schedule and a fair amount of my mood better than med adjustments in the past. I’ve been overmedicated before. Meds are also NOT PERFECT– they are a leverage, at best. Needless to say, I was pretty pissed off when I said I’d changed my mind, I would comply fully, and they wouldn’t shut the hell up.
The doc piled into me first, and immediately misunderstood my reply. No, Doc, I’m not suggesting that my meds be altered. Hang on… you’re going to have to understand with me that the bipolar makes it hard sometimes to make my intentions clear. I’m not saying they won’t ever be altered; I’m saying that I’ll be consistent with the dosages as they are now and then see about adjusting them after some time of doing that.
On one hand, I can understand the doc being blunt– this was the first time he’d met with me, ever. But he shouldn’t have to press so hard to get me to agree– damnit, Doc, I ALREADY SAID I HAD RECOMMITTED BEFORE I EVEN WALKED THROUGH THE FUCKING DOOR. As soon as he made me say “deal”, he left.
And the med nurse– shit, where should I begin with her? I don’t take passive-aggressive threats very well, i.e. she suggests this was not just my problem, it was now their problem (yeah, don’t royal fucking “we” me) and that she had a door full of patients that were willing to get well… goddamn, where the hell is the “shut up, bitch” indicator light? Of course, I want to get better, damnit; this isn’t my only fucking health problem!
Dearie me, you fucking wench, don’t you have a fucking clue? I already explained how abnormal my mother was…shhhiiiiiiiittttt… didn’t you think you hadn’t pushed the Big Red Button That Will Eventually Heat That Rage That May Come Down On You Like The Wrath of God? Fuckin’ a, bitch, you’re about my mom’s age– did Pat Sajak tell you could buy a vowel, but not a clue?
AHHHHH don’t get me started on the plethora of double standard bullshit– I’ve already missed a slew of criteria:
- I’m not a female
- The perp was not a man and not my father
- The perp raped my soul but not my body
not to mention the shitty “your mom made a mistake, you need to forgive” crap I got from ecclesiastical leaders when I finally released it was not normal and had the cajones to talk about it.
Oh yeah… I’ve already been in therapy for 23 years… I’m supposed to have all the information I need to figure it out by myself now? Fuck that. Feh. They’ve been plenty busy playing fucking musical chairs the past few years anyway.
HAHAHAHAHA… yes, there is a “Mental Disorders” group that I’m a part of… but since posts turn up on Google searches, like HELL am I going to post this out in the open. Fuck that, too.
Locked to Family and Friends. No offense, but I’m going to be fucking amazed if you all understand what I’m going through.
(WordPress EDIT October 26th, 2018: WordPress uses password privacy instead of granular restrictions like LiveJournal does and VOX once did, so the post is open.)