Well, I just had another breakdown here at work.
Last edited Wed Nov 7, 2012, 05:16 PM - Edit history (2)
The worst since my big breakdown with the therapist 2 weeks ago. Had to run down to the men's room and cry my eyes out. Good thing I was alone in there. Trying to calm down and compose myself.
Over the same thing, that fucking b**** of a quack physician who ruined my life. I want the life I had back, plus the improvements I am now making. I can never get it back. I don't know if I can ever feel whole again, ever feel that some part of me is not a dangerous, defective monster. My self worth, my very sense of self, was stolen from me.
There really aren't words to adequately describe how I feel about how I was treated. The closest I can come is this:
I feel like I was raped.
All I asked, and then pleaded, was to handle this quietly, outpatient, discretely in a manner which would not expose me, not make it known I was mentally ill. She completely disregarded what I want. No compassion, no consideration of how this would affect me. Just threats and ultimatums.
A five minute diagnosis. Five more minutes to arrest, indict, try, and convict. Like a North Korean kangaroo court. Then three weeks, three of the most miserable weeks of my life, waiting for the system to carry out the execution of my soul.
Even if it were medically necessary, which I vehemently dispute, it could have been handled with much more sensitivity, compassion, caring. I was told absolute nothing, given no information at all to base a decision on, no rational for a plan of treatment. I was deprived of my right to make an informed decision, to consent. I was given ultimatums under threat. I wasn't asked what I would like to happen, I was told how it would go down, no choice.
I went in to this woman seeking help, compassion, care. I emerged an hour later shattered, treated like a common criminal and feeling like one, and truly suicidal for the first and only time in my life. Degraded, dehumanized, utterly lost in hopelessness. I was NEVER suicidal before that hour. Yes, I had thoughts, but no intention, and it was along the lines of "someday, if I'm sick or old or in pain, I would do it" -- more like what Jack Kevorkian was fighting for than what I observed in many of my fellow inmates (patients) in the psych ward. That day, for a few hours, I really wanted to find that overpass support and hit it dead center at 90 mph. The only thing that stopped me was the thought it would devastate and probably kill my mother. She was horribly abused by my psycho of a sad, sad excuse for a father, and she doesn't deserve more pain.
I told her what would happen if she forced me to do this. I told her it would ruin my family relationships, which were already strained, I told her it would destroy my chances for a meaningful way to make a living, it would ruin me financially, it would crush me emotionally. She could care less. It has done all of that to some extent already. And it has turned me into a deceitful liar, one lie after another after another to cover my tracks so no one else in my life finds out my secret. So much for the Hipocratic Oath of first do no harm.
I haven't called her yet to cancel my scheduled appointment and tell her I will never be back. I'm afraid I will say too much, tell her off, tip my hand.
I am researching MedMal lawyers. I am going to make an appt. and pay someone a 200-300 bucks for an hour of their time just to listen. I know psych MedMal is about the most difficult of all, nothing is quantifiable. It will go nowhere, I know this going in. But I have to do this for my own peace of mind.
No, this will not destroy me. Fuck that, I am never going to allow that incompetent travesty of a physician take me down. Because that would mean she won. I'm the winner of this one, and I'll be damned if I' m goiing to be destroyed, even if part of my soul is now dead to me forever. It means I have to work twice as hard, twice as long. It means when I set the weights on a squat machine at the 70 lbs I am comfortable with now, that I have to move the pin down to 90, and do 30 reps instead of 20. It means that I'm signing up for the fitness class after weight loss is over, and for the program they call Boot Camp after the 12 weeks of fitness is over. It means I'm taking the boxing lessons in the spring when I am physically ready. It means I have to fight to the death.
Fuck that bitch. I' m sorry to all of the women of DU for the use of that derogatory term, I consider myself an ardent feminist, but I know no other word that expresses what I feel.
Later.
= new reply since forum marked as read
