ONE Article: Bipolar, Part 3

This sucks.

The problem started with something called art therapy. OK – it involved more than that, but that was what we spent the majority of the time doing during this time of day. If I have to make one more * collage I’m going to paper-cut myself to death!

The therapist who was responsible for art therapy was probably a nice person. We got along in the beginning, but then she noticed that I sat in the same place every day. It was a rectangular table and I would always sit at the shorter end facing the window, where I could see everyone. She would often sit opposite me and most of the others would sit on either side.

Well, she decided that I was making a power play on her and the group.

“No, I just want to be able to see people’s faces when they talk.” I said.

“Well, I’d like you to sit somewhere else.”

It was nearing the end of my treatment and I just wanted to go home, so I agreed. I sat someplace different. I can’t wait to get out of here and away from the seat Nazi. … Great, another art project with cotton balls.

The next day for group therapy, which was in a different room, the regular guy was gone and my individual therapist was filling in. I arrived a couple minutes late and when I went to sit down he said, “Kevin, the group has decided that you are going to sit here today,” pointing to a metal folding chair on the side of the circle.

What * is he talking about?

“Kevin, you always sit in the same place and now the group has decided you should sit in this chair here.”

I was angry, and I was hurt. My “friends” talked about me when I wasn’t here and then decided to make me sit in this metal chair while they all sit on cloth chairs and sofas? “Can I at least sit there?” I asked as I pointed to another empty chair.

“That’s fine. We just didn’t want you sitting in your regular place.”

I didn’t say a word for those 90 minutes. I was pissed.

After group the first thing out of my friend’s mouth was that the therapist was the one with the idea to have me sit someplace different, and not the group’s. This furthered my distrust for my therapist and my anger for his lie was off the charts.

I was in a strange environment and one of my few familiar things was sitting in a particular seat in the circle. It may sound silly, but when my life was falling apart I wanted to be able to have something within my control. But that’s not how he saw it and it greatly damaged our therapeutic relationship. Like I said, it may sound silly, but at the time that was virtually all I had.

ONE Article: Bipolar, Part 2

Finally I’m free. I can go outside. I can use the phone. I can do whatever I want. I’m not locked up any more. Now I have to go see a psychiatrist. Great. Just what I need. I guess it’s a small price to pay for my freedom.

Those were my thoughts as I was being picked up from my time in a locked mental facility in March of 2000. The psychiatrist that I was assigned was an average doctor, but he was very matter-of-fact. He had been in the military and there wasn’t much discussion. He gave me the meds that he thought I needed and that was that. He put me on many medicines and the cocktail gave me severe side effects. The two biggest side effects were weight gain and fatigue.

***

My alarm clock went off something like 14 times this morning. I guess I missed class again. Oh well. I don’t really care anymore. I just want to sleep and eat and be left alone. Why can’t people understand that? Ever since I got out of the hospital people have been looking at me weird. Their stares pierce through me to the core of my soul and I can see the disgust in their eyes. And they should be disgusted. They should laugh. I am a nut case. I couldn’t function without medication – and now I can’t function on medication. I just want this to be over.

I have missed 3 appointments with my psychiatrist now and so I can only make same-day appointments if there are any available. He also won’t give me any med refills until I see him. What the heck? I’m on so much medication that I can’t wake up, and then I’m punished for that fact by not being able to see my doctor. He says the medication is helping, but what does he know? He’s not living this. He’s not seeing the snickering and feeling like a leper. I hate my life.

Several months go by while I’m on various medications. Psych meds are a peculiar group because no one really understands how they work. What’s more, every person reacts differently to each med, so to get a person on the right doses and the right meds is trial-and-error.

Why can’t they just get my medication figured out?? I can’t remember things. I’m sleeping all the time. When I’m not sleeping I’m eating. God, make this stop.

***

Things are getting worse. It’s been 7 months since my lock-up and I don’t feel any better. I’m really ticked off now. I tried to do the right thing and get help, but it’s pointless. No one can help me. I’ve got to just get away from all these people who are trying to “help.” They are incompetent and have no idea what it’s like living with bipolar. Yeah, that’s what they call me now. I have a label. I’m supposed to fit in this nice little therapeutic box. My DSM code is 296. Isn’t that handy? I’m now a number.

But still no one can help me.

***

The following takes place after the events described in last month’s column.

I have been driving all night now and I don’t know what my destination is yet. Someone once told me about this clinic in Texas. Maybe they can help me. I’m out of options. I can’t live like this. If they can’t help me, no one can.

It’s now 8 am and I am half way to Texas. I called directory assistance and they were able to find the number for the clinic. I called them and told them I needed help and was coming now. They transferred me to a few different people and tried to talk me down a bit. I was very anxious, hadn’t slept for 36 hours and no one knew where I was going.

“You’ve got to call your wife,” the voice on the other end of the phone kept saying.

“Fine. But she won’t understand. She’s going to be mad at me and will try to get me to come home,” I protested. Thankfully I was wrong.