I was released from the state mental institution when the mental health system was still being ran by the state. I only spent about two and a half days on this first trip. The place was terribly overcrowded and only those that were worse off than me or had some kind of insurance were kept at that location. I was assigned both a social worker and psychiatrist and arrangements were made for me to visit them soon after my incarceration.
I wan’t keen on either idea and felt as though I was merely fulfilling my part of a unsaid bargain. I was in my mid-20’s and didn’t feel that “sick.” Besides, I voluntarily committed myself to the hospital. That was because after the escort in the back of the police squad car, I decided that I didn’t want to leave it to the hospital’s discretion as to when they would release me. I was distraught enough and knew more than three days in that place and I was going to be a violent individual.
My therapy sessions began and I began to see my psychiatrist with my social worker in attendance, which I thought was weird and they were both male. I loathed going to my therapy sessions. Sometimes, I’d show up and lay my head down and try and sleep. When I did converse with my dildo of a social worker, I’d talk to him about my diagnosis and ask him what he thought about it as far as if he thought it was accurate in my case.
I asked him what he thought about my future and he said that he thought I’d be on medication and therapy for the rest of my life. Of course I made a dismissive sound at him as I said, “well, isn’t that bleak!” He then informed me that people that he’d dealt with before from my similar background didn’t turn out good. That they usually ended up being drug addicts, homeless or prostitutes and sometimes, all of the above. I then remarked that I was top of my class. I know, I was born sardonic.
At that time, I was administered Wellbuturin. I know they messed around with the dosage and eventually put me on the extended release. It made me even more agitated and annoyed and it wasn’t helpful. I was despondent at my “therapy” sessions and my social worker would try to encourage me by saying things like, “You’ve got a lot going for you still and you’re young, smart, and pretty.” At this point he steps over my threshold and enters a place he shouldn’t. The boundary has been trespassed!
I just looked at him cold and spoke flatly, “Those things are only relative. They are meaningless unless you’re able to utilize them for gain of some sort!” I think I seethed as I told him that I was deciding the session was over for that day. When I was discharged from the mental institution, I had blown out veins in the crooks of both my arms. I looked like a “junkie” as the phlebotomists were so inexperienced that they also blew veins in my hands trying to take my blood samples.
They claimed I was dehydrated. Yet, I had tried to push fluids after the first round of poking after they couldn’t get a sample. I would liken myself to the pin cushion I was to the inept phlebotomists in the hospital to the whole state system. I was uninsured and therefor, subjugated to whatever care was available. It’s hard enough being sick. You’ll hear your providers tell you to be your own advocate. That’s a hard thing to manage when you’re barely able to make it to your appointments as it is and you’ve got other medical issues compounding your mental illnesses as well.
I’d like to know who the fuck is their advocate when they are experiencing the real life scenarios that their very own patients deal with? Some of my appointments are better than others. I just get so tired of hearing the same spiel but just from a different person. We’re talking about real life issues a patient deals with daily and not conditions that can easily be monitored in a clinical setting or hospital. I can’t say it enough, because unless you’ve been through the similar things your patient has lived, you have no comprehension of what they went through and what they are still living through as a fallout from their past traumas.