Therapy

The first time I saw a psychiatrist was while I was in rehab. I don’t remember much about him, except that he had dark curly hair and I liked to talk to him.

One incident stands out in my mind. I had just been home for the weekend. It must have been about this time of year, June, or perhaps May. I was discharged on July 13, so it was before that. My progress was going well, and if it weren’t for still needing practice with catheterizing myself I might have been discharged in early June. So they allowed, indeed encouraged, me to go home every weekend by the beginning of June. My home wasn’t exactly accessible yet, but by being there it did help my parents to see what I would need.

I don’t remember what happened over that weekend anymore, but whatever it was I was very upset. So, I asked to see the shrink, and was told that he would call me when he had time to see me. He had an office on the floor below the main floor, which had the bedrooms and PT, OT and nurse’s station. Sometimes I would meet with him alone, but often a social worker or nurse or some other person would sit in on the session. That day I specifically asked to meet with him alone.

Later that afternoon, I was called to go to a certain room, but it wasn’t his office. I entered, and the room was a small auditorium. The psychiatrist was sitting near the front of the room, essentially in a small stage area, and the seating area was full of perhaps 40 people. I wouldn’t be surprised if my memory exaggerates this, my image is of 3 rows of people with 10 – 15 each in them. Perhaps it was only 15 total? One thing for certain, it wasn’t a private meeting, and I was confused, hurt and furious all at the same time. The Dr. proceeded to ask me what was wrong, and why I had asked to see him, but I wouldn’t talk. I felt betrayed. He pressured me, and I started to cry. He pushed some more, and I started to yell that this wasn’t what I wanted, that I had asked for a private meeting, that there was no way I was going to talk at that moment. I held my own. And then he turned to talk to the audience, explaining that my outburst was good, healthy and normal, and evidence that I was psychologically strong and going to be ok despite what had happened to me. Then he let me go.

U of Penn’s rehab center is part of their hospital system, and thereby a teaching hospital. Good things and bad to this, you get the newest technology and techniques, but you also often have a crowd around the bedside and have to put up with doctors also being educators. I liked this actually, because when things were explained to the medical students, they were explained to me too. I didn’t like it on that one day.

Later he did call me into his office, and I did get to work out what was on my mind. I point blank refused to be on display again, and he honored that. I continued to like him, but I never quite trusted him totally again. Looking back, I find it interesting that I can’t remember the issues that were so difficult at home that I wanted support for, though I could guess. But I clearly remember that interview. And I believe that it actually was good for me, in an odd kind of way. His assessment was in the main, right! And it was good for me to hear him say that to other people. I was not going to let my injury/disability/victim status make me meek or a pushover. And I am much the same today, in that I pick my battles and strive for what is important to me, not by someone else’s definition of what I should find important.

He was not totally correct though, for some days I feel the scars I have very acutely. I look back at my blog entries and see that they are more about what is hard, different, annoying and just generally negative. My life isn’t all negative, but the way my disability has impacted it feels negative. In fact, I’m hard pressed to find a way that it’s been positive.

Over the years, I have seen 6 different therapists – for all kinds of reasons. Once in college because I was remembering some repressed childhood memories. Once in grad school because a year of group therapy was required to get the PhD. Once was marriage counseling when Ranjan and I had difficulties the first time, around 1989. And once was after Ranjan and I separated, 2001.

The longest stretch was on and off for 10 years with the same psychologist, starting in 1979. I had started grad school in September, and in October Ranjan went to Sri Lanka to be with his parents for a few months. He was going to come back in on a fiancé visa, and in the end he was away for 4 months. I was in a new town, San Diego, with no family, and the only friends I had were the other students I had just met, and Jim – who I knew from MIT but didn’t like much. It was really during that time that Jim and I became friends, though it was years later that we started the relationship that turned into love. That fall of 1979 I was alone for the first time – a single apartment, a car I had just figured out how to manage with my wheelchair, financially independent and responsible. One day I realized that I was afraid to go out at night, or even to open the curtain to look out. My plants needed the morning sun, so I wanted to open the curtain in the living room before going to bed, so that even if I slept late they wouldn’t suffer. But I couldn’t open the curtain, and had a panic attack, and started therapy within a couple of weeks.

The psychiatrist at Penn might have said this was a strength, that I knew I needed help and reached out for it before it was debilitating. Perhaps he’s right, but it was scary all the same. The therapist I found was good for me, and I stayed with her for the better part of 10 years. She’s the one who helped me see that the recurring dreams I had of a cat with a bloody necktie were really out-of-body near-death experiences. She had me draw the image (I still have it) and the dreams stopped.

However, most of the time I was in therapy, with all the various therapists, the topics I worked on were related to my childhood. Like the majority of psych students, I was in grad school to figure out my own dysfunctional family. It wasn’t till I was in therapy after my marriage fell apart, that the therapist and I talked about what diagnosis I should have. I was in therapy then for more situational reasons, to help me get through a bad patch of time. I spent way too much of my time crying and had to find a way through it. But for insurance purposes I had to have a diagnosis, and my quick reaction was anxiety disorder, or something along those lines – that’s what I’d been given before. This therapist suggested post traumatic stress disorder, and after talking about it, we concluded that it fit. There are still some things I do that would qualify for a PTSD symptom. I cannot sleep in a public place for example, and the summer Stephen biked across the country sleeping in public parks caused me no end of anxiety.

The therapist I saw for so many years did say something to the effect that we hadn’t really delved into issues related to the shooting, or my disability. I dismissed her concern, saying that I had that part of my life under control. And then my last therapist in 2001 brought it to the front again, reminding me that I’d heard those words before.

Today I find myself wondering, if perhaps I should be back in therapy one more time. The fact that I need to write these blog notes means something. The good news is that I’m not thinking of therapy because of a panic attack, or waking up crying, or some current event in my life.

For me though, therapy has always been a huge commitment, and makes me moody and hard to be with. Difficult memories would surface, and I’d brood on them all week. If I feel a need to write now, it will double, and the frustration I have when I don’t have time to write will double too. I’ll have even more ‘brain chatter’ when I am trying to fall asleep, and be more likely to ‘sleep in’ till noon. I’m really sleeping till 10 (which is bad enough), but then stay in bed for another hour or 2 to think about my dreams or just stay cocooned in the warm bed, feeling safe, and thinking about whatever comes to mind.

I couldn’t pamper myself like that every day of all the years while I was in therapy! Some of those years I had grad school, and some I had little babies to care for. Some years I was working. I never had a time when I totally shut down, and didn’t do the tasks my life required, but there were times when I would have liked to. And when I could write, brood, sleep in or shut down I did. My life now is more open than it’s ever been. The idea of giving in to that exploration is both appealing and scary.

Where am I now? What do I need?