M.D.D., D.P.D., G.A.D., P.T.S.D., I.O.P., C.B.T., D.B.T. . . .
W.T.F . . . ?
The evaluation process was daunting. As someone for whom sharing my life story is a particularly difficult feat, having to do so in an environment where the man opposite me was being paid to find something wrong with me made the circumstance all the more difficult. This is one instance in which my hard-headed, passive-aggressive, personality did not do me well in the least bit. However, I powered through, and was as open and honest as I could.
Per recommendation of my assessor, this past week I began an intense outpatient program (IOP) for teens “at risk” of committing suicide. The program entails three days of three hour group therapy sessions a week, with other kids my age who also struggle with suicidal ideation and have histories of failed attempts.
This wasn’t my first choice, as I would have rather stuck to regular outpatient services, but it’s where I ended up; and, after just my first week, I’m starting to think maybe it is where I belong. Even if just for now.
Overall, it has been a lot to take in, in such a short period of time. I found myself stuck in emotions I just couldn’t shake – a lot of sadness and frustration being brought to the surface, and the changes in services only added to the stress on my mind and body. In fact, a lot of my sudden emotion was a result of not knowing how to deal with this new set of circumstances, and constantly being exposed to three of my least favorite things in the world: being labeled, adults who think they’re above teens just because of the age gap, and people who pity themselves constantly. And, to no surprise, I was met with all three in my first day at IOP.
Immediately upon my arrival I went to see the psychiatrist for my initial medication management appointment. And Dr. Asshole was quite the treat. He called me his “puzzle,” for my lack of usable answers left him fishing for labels – I walked out with a few more tally’s on the board – I’m now at four: MDD, DPD, GAD, and PTSD. For those of you who are not psychiatry scholars, those are abbreviations for Major Depressive Disorder, Dissociative Personality Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. And, no, even after months of some of them, I still have not a clue what any of that means! All I know is I walked out with a list of questions flowing through my head longer than my weekly grocery list. Overwhelming to say the least. Blackburn really threw me for a loop, though; as much as I disliked his demeanor, I’ve never had someone spit my crap right back at me before . . . He definitely listens, he definitely cares; yet, he challenges me in a way I’ve never been challenged. As frustrating as it is, I think maybe I need someone to be tough on me for a change – I need someone to beat this shit out of me. For once in my life I want to get better, and I know I can’t do it on my own. He may be an asshole, but he cares, and I guess that’s more than I could have expected.
After meeting with the psychiatrist, I made my way into the group therapy room for the remainder of the session. Sitting around a large table was seven girls and a program therapist. The therapist quickly explained to me the “rules” of my stay, much as a dictator warns his enemies of the circumstances under which he will make his move to annihilate them. “No phones, no suggestive language, no making friends, and absolutely, under no circumstances, may you share anything personal about why you are here. . .” It was definitely one of the more intimidating moments I have experienced thus far in my life. Pet peeve number two: adults who indulge in superiority, is in full-effect. One would think it couldn’t get much worse, but, of course, it did.
That left only one more: self-pitying peers . . . Yeah, it’s safe to say it was not my day.
Just praying I’ll get out of this intense outpatient prison sooner rather than later . . .