What Are You Looking For In A Therapist?

You’ve seen the title of this piece, so let me start by saying this question has been asked of me by my doctor, and it’s a long story. Overall, my best response was, “Someone who isn’t an asshole. Someone who isn’t going to waste my time, and someone whose office I will not leave more furious than when I went in.” If you’ve never dealt with a therapist before, believe me when I say these are supremely honest, reasonable requests. Then I noted my history and realized how much this traumatizes me, repeatedly.

I began talking with psychiatrists and therapists around age twelve or thirteen, as a way to combat the damage I was experiencing at home, with an abusive, controlling father. The first doctor was fired after roughly two sessions, in which he threatened to hospitalize me at the first appointment because I didn’t care to talk to him. “If you don’t change your behavior, I will hospitalize you.” First time meeting me, barely knew a thing about me, and he was already making undue threats. That’s called, “abuse of power”. There’s not a single mental health professional who should be threatening their patients. That’s illegal and, depending on the personality they are dealing with, quite dangerous. He had already openly admitted of being afraid of meeting up with someone like me in a dark alley, but he made no attempt to connect or get to know me and what I was going through.

To provide helpful background, I was in no danger of harming myself or others, but he saw fit to disrespect me, to call my mother names when he asked her to leave the room for a short period of time to “chat” with me (Asking me about her personality and disrespecting her for seeking out help for her child. Yeah, that didn’t sit well with me. To this day, despite the fact that my mother has been gone almost thirteen years, if someone disrespects her or speaks negatively about her, they might end up choking on their own teeth. I tend to warn people in advance, but I only warn you once.), and when I told her precisely what was said behind closed doors, she called and cancelled the following appointment, letting him know I would not be returning. He had the audacity to call her and ask why I didn’t show up for my appointment, pretending he had not received notice of the cancellation. She had given him plenty of notice as to why I would not be coming back, but once he called, he opened himself up to being schooled for his horrible behavior. This first introduction to a psychiatrist, one who specialized in treating adolescents, left me scarred. I was not scared of this doctor, but I did contemplate going back to his house (he worked out of a home office) and cutting his tires. I had to return to the person who’d referred me and explain why this doctor should not be seeing anyone, leave alone children. I don’t remember his name, but I hope he rots for how he treated me. I didn’t need an abusive doctor; I already had enough abuse at home.

After that, I saw a therapist for a few years, and she was all right. At this point, I was already an established writer and I was careful with my words with her. She still assisted for a while when I moved out of state.

My next doctor wasn’t much better, except that instead of abuse or threats (or a combination of both), her answer to everything was medication. For over a year, she practically force-fed me Prozac until I put my foot down and refused to take it. I was about five foot three at the time and one hundred and twenty pounds. Antidepressants in that particular class can cause severe weight gain and other health issues. I wasn’t eating any differently, nor was I eating more often, but suddenly I was trapped in a body that wasn’t my own. If I hadn’t started out depressed, I was by the time I fired her. I spent two straight years on roughly ten different medications before I finally decided to stop seeing her. She was unreachable when not in the office, she was not helping me in any way because she had misdiagnosed me, and when my therapist at the same location left, so did I. I then spent a few years obsessed with working out in my attempt to shed the medication weight. I was working out three times a day. This doctor didn’t understand that she’d destroyed my sense of self and self-esteem. Her answer for everything was pills.

After firing several more doctors, I would end up back in session with the therapist who had left, but now had her own practice. In three years, I didn’t feel she did much for me, and when she was pregnant with her first child, she decided not to see patients any more. She left me in limbo, and I’m sure this was true for others, as well.

A year or so later, I ended up in the office of another doctor. To say he was a piece of work would be a vast understatement. Don’t assume a physician who went to three Ivy League schools is better equipped at helping you than one who went to medical school elsewhere. He was a nightmare, and my neurologist at the time had referred me to him. This doctor refused to take my mental health seriously, and wanted to put me into some kind of “day program” where I would interact with other people who suffered from varying degrees of mental illness. He thought this was the only way I’d, “get better”. He even yelled at me during an appointment in which he had to fill out a form for my insurance, which took less than ten minutes of his time at the end of a session which cost roughly $500 for an hour. Mind you, this was his charge before insurance reimbursed me. This “relationship” where he refused to help me did not last long. In fact, it lead me to a new therapist who would refer me to a psychiatrist who happened to know the previous doctor.

I was under the care of the new psychiatrist for sixteen years. His treatment was sub-par, outside of when I was in his office. When my records were requested in 2016, he actually claimed I was never under his care! After having submitted my entire chart, which was over six hundred pages, which included personal notes which never should have seen the light of day, I called him and confronted him. For sixteen years, he told me I was suffering from Bipolar I and II, mixed episode. This diagnosis was one hundred percent inaccurate.

In an attempt to help myself, I did see a therapist for six months in 2012. When I lost my insurance, she disappeared. I’m still annoyed by that because I feel like she was a good therapist for me.

When I met my current treating physician, he was astounded by how much medical neglect I had endured between doctors and inept therapists. When he handed me my new diagnosis, it was a game-changer, but it also left me devastated, because there was no way to fix any of it. The damage was done, and all we could do was treat things here and there.

The day I first met him, he disclosed he’d be leaving in a month. Our last discussion, days before he left that particular hospital, he said his biggest regret was not being able to do more to help me. This stayed with me. Upon his departure, my case was handed over to another doctor who, upon meeting me, in less than ten minutes, insinuated I was an addict because I was taking medication she didn’t approve of. This woman tried to damage my medical record as part of her vendetta, and she pursued getting me kicked out of the mental health care clinic, but I lucked out with a therapist who fought on my behalf. Unfortunately, nine months later, she would also leave that particular hospital.

I was now left with no therapist and no doctor. I signed up for waitlists with a handful of places offering therapy and either no doctor or they had someone who came in once a month to prescribe medication. After meeting with two different therapists, I lost my patience and let both of them know I would not be returning. Not long after, I bumped into my doctor in one of the medical buildings where I now go, having since changed insurance companies to one that covers a broader spectrum of things and has a larger service coverage area (the entire state, pretty much, along with parts of Rhode Island and Connecticut). In less than two weeks, I had an appointment and was “back in business”, so to speak.

My doctor actually gives a fuck about me. I am trying to keep this in mind because I’m annoyed as hell with him right now. His first attempt of setting me up with a therapist he works with crashed and burned. I wasted ten months of my life dealing with this woman, and at my very first appointment, she made the crucial mistake of threatening me. Knowing what I know about what needs to be said between clinician and patient, I tried to let it go, but I then spent the entire time waiting for her to be a better therapist, which never happened. I cancelled my last appointment with her because 1, I was going to tear her a new asshole. 2, I did not feel she would be receptive to the feedback, and more than that, did I really want her to get paid as I shredded her for being a useless therapist? No. She didn’t deserve to be paid when I was going to be angry going in and leaving. That’s not right, or fair. When I explained this to my doctor, he agreed I did the right thing by being silent, but explaining to him why it didn’t work out. She was in no way invested in my well-being, and it was obvious, especially as she repeatedly checked the clock from the second I arrived, right up until the final moments of each session.

Collectively, my doctor and I decided to shelve the pursuant of a new therapist after I called twenty different therapists, all to be told that they had full practices, which means they aren’t taking on new patients. A few had a three year waiting list to see them, and at that point, I’d had enough of the bullshit of flaky therapists.

When it came up towards the end of last year, he didn’t really have too many ideas or options for me, but was willing to keep trying. I had actually considered fighting for my out-of-network benefits to return to a previous therapist, providing she agreed.

Today is the day to go over the whole, “What are you looking for in a therapist?” question for what is hopefully the last time, and see where this goes. It gives me anxiety and makes me sick to my stomach. Because ultimately, I don’t know if I’ll ever meet a therapist and feel they are a “good fit” for me. It takes time to build trust and establish a relationship enough to be vulnerable. Anyone who truly knows me, knows I’m the least likely person in any given room to put myself in a position of weakness. I’m pretty glacial most of the time. I’m not a welcoming person; I will get to know you first. I am not overly trusting, either. These are things you have to earn with me, yet I see people give away trust like tissues all the time, and then they wonder why they’re devastated in the end.

It is so rare for me to meet anyone and feel an immediate sense of rightness, but when I do, I am much more forthcoming with them because I know I’m not being judged. Over the past year I have come to realize that, in many instances, people tell me everything about their lives, and this likely stems from being a good listener, a solid confidant, and someone people often rely on in an advisory capacity, but if asked, they would not be able to tell you much about me. This is why people often say, “Check on your strong friends.” The person who is everyone’s rock is not always okay, but by turning to them constantly, never asking about their health or life, you are diminishing them and that isn’t acceptable behavior. In fact, it’s a quick way for me to boot you out of my life. It’s not “the silent treatment”, it’s walking away from toxicity with your self-respect. That’s what I have to do to preserve my sanity at times, and I will never apologize for it.

I’ll see how this Telehealth appointment goes and make my decision from there. I know whatever happens, it will be a collaborative discussion. Having a doctor who doesn’t Lord over you is important. If you’re working on your mental health, keep this in mind through your journey.

Brightest of Blessings,

copyright © 2021 by Lisa Marino & Poison In Lethal Doses, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

People Assume…

“Mental illness.

People assume you aren’t sick unless they see the sickness on your skin, like scars forming a map of all the ways you’re hurting.

My heart is a prison of, Have you trieds. ‘Have you tried exercising? Have you tried eating better? Have you tried not being sad, not being sick? Have you tried being more like me?’ Have you tried shutting up?!

Yes, I have tried. Yes, I am still trying, and yes, I am still sick.

Sometimes monsters are invisible, and sometimes demons attack you from the inside. Just because you cannot see the claws and the teeth, does not mean they aren’t ripping through me. Pain does not need to be seen to be felt. Telling me there is no problem, won’t solve the problem.

This is not how miracles are born. This is not how sickness works.” ― Emm Roy

World Mental Health Day 2020

Today is World Mental Health Day, and as someone who discusses mental health throughout the course of the year, I come up short today. I come up short because I am dealing with my own battles, and they have been cruel to me. Hell, so have the people who are supposed to be “on my side”. Know this; the majority of mental health issues are fought silently, with no support at all.

I’m struggling. I’ve been struggling, and a few people close to me are actually offended/bothered by my speaking out about it. They don’t like the answers I am giving them, so I’ve decided to say nothing. There’s a gigantic, “Fuck you” elephant in the room, and I’m not going to ignore it or accept their bullshit politely. That’s not who I am and it’s not how I roll. If the tables were turned, there’s no reason for me to be a bitch or to be hurtful to anyone who is already hurting enough. I call that empathy and compassion. We aren’t ALL born with these traits.

Some people, by proxy, should have a more sensitive approach to mental health patients, especially those who’ve hit patches which required hospitalization(s), doctors, medication, and/or therapy. You don’t get to act superior to those of us who do not suffer from passing issues, but suffer tremendously with DAILY struggles. And quite frankly, you don’t get to dictate to me. Ever.

Only I truly know how bad I am suffering. I’m the one who asked for medication, adding on another failed drug which made me sick and caused me to need an additional week to get it out of my system. For most people, it leaves in twelve hours. It somehow built up in my system, in less than ten doses, to the point where my doctor and I were stumped by it because it’s not supposed to linger in the system.

I was prescribed something new yesterday, but the pharmacy is out of stock and had to order it. Moreover, my doctor won’t be in the office this coming week, so I will not get to speak to him until later this month. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is when you’re starting new medication and you’re slightly freaked out by it. I have valid concerns when he isn’t available, despite him assuring me that I can have the hospital contact him no matter where he is. I appreciate knowing this, but I feel like it’s only to be used in a dire emergency. I would never use it in any other fashion. Here’s hoping I NEVER have to use it.

Setting aside this one day for, “World Mental Health” is almost insulting. Suicide numbers are up. Prescription numbers for anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, insomnia, and commonly associated comorbidities are up. You can’t deny the facts.

At the start of my mental health journey, I lost almost every friend I had, including my best friend of twelve years. Many people acted like it wasn’t real, and if they did treat it as something real, they suddenly didn’t want me around them. Let me make something abundantly clear for the uneducated and ignorant; Mental health is NOT a communicable disease. If you will so easily revoke your love and friendship from someone, then you are far more beastly than what mental health does to millions of us solo.

This was a long time ago, but as I’ve been actively working on trauma over the past few years, things of this nature have resurfaced and hurt me all over again. I hesitate to bring too many new people into my life for precisely this reason. Instead of seeing me as a person, people tend to see me as damaged. I am no more damaged than anyone else. Life is not point A to point Z. There are twists, turns, shocks, emotions, pain, and surprises along the way. There are journeys no one but you can participate in. No matter how hard people try to project this false image of life perfection, there’s no such thing. There’s no such thing as the perfect anything. The word itself is both overused and improperly used.

This is what brings me to today’s reality; I genuinely have nothing to offer. Despite being voted “A strong voice for the mental health community”, sometimes I need to be silent. Sometimes I need to put my headphones on and hear nothing, but music. People communicate with me via text and Facebook messenger, and I’d delete both if I could most days. No one ever picks up the phone to see how I’m doing, because people are so wrapped up in themselves these days, and I don’t trust enough people to discuss any of this crap at length.

Last year, when I had to have genetic testing done to see if a medication was safe or not, I mentioned it in passing to another family member. This person didn’t bother to ask if I was all right, but wanted to know what medication it was. I didn’t provide an answer because our ancestry is so different (She does not have any of my maternal ancestry.), despite being related, and because she can figure it out for herself since it’s part of her job. If I hadn’t found the fine print on this particular drug, I never would have been tested. It is a medication for depression which requires a blood test if you have Far East Asian ancestry. I had to factor this in since death was a rare side effect for those carrying two specific Asian genes, but most people will probably never require this test. And really, if I share something deeply personal, I would think any normal person would ask how I’m doing. Alas, I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that few people have good manners. Or common fucking sense.

So, as World Mental Health Day comes to a close (from where I’m sitting), I’m going to take medication for anxiety, insomnia, and Complex PTSD. I am also going to include a few muscle relaxers because, as my migraine treatment wears off, it puts a heavier load on muscles in my face, head, neck, shoulders, and upper back. And I’m going to try to forge ahead, like most people who suffer and survive. We aren’t quite sure what we’re surviving for most days, but we do it, nonetheless.

copyright © 2020 by Lisa Marino & Poison In Lethal Doses, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.