Pain, Pain Go Away

I'm sorry for yanking this post earlier. Yes, it was a self-censure. I question the value of this post. While it is my accurate experience, it is definitely representative of what my reviewer deemed as me exorcising my pain. This type of blog post feels indulgent and therefore of little value. I get afraid of offending my readers and alienating them. But fuck it. I'll repost. I guess I need to have a little more faith that the readers of my blog can withstand these emotional temper tantrums

Ye Be Warned: This is Dark. And it's a total regression for me in "blog quality". Too long, unedited, self-indulgent, wah-wah-wah. And if you are not at all interested in my psychological assessment experience, that makes two of us. But I kind of have to get this shit off my chest or it will eat me alive. If you prefer to read something more lighthearted and possible funny, check this oldie out.


"There you are my sweet, sweet painkiller. Oh, how I've missed you...What's that? I just saw you this morning? Yeah, this is kind of hard to say...but...ummm...I'm kind of in love with you."


Fucking migraine headaches. I feel one coming on and I'm devastated. This is why I should never, ever cry. Every time I allow myself the luxury of what I like to call the "sobbing cries" I end up curled in a fetal position begging for somebody to shoot me in the head. No, really. I've actually asked for that. And if you ever had a migraine you are nodding your head right now saying, "I totally get that." Because migraines are much, much worse than death by bullet. I don't know anybody who owns a gun, though. So no one has ever granted my request. Lucky me.


I'm never going to cry again for the rest of my life. It's just not worth the hours of nauseating pain that inevitably follow. So what terrible event prompted my sobbing cries? If you don't want to hear the answer to that then go look at those pictures of what Pos describes as very disturbing kitty cats. Otherwise here is another excerpt from the chapter known as "Gwen's incessant bullshit".


I'll have to start you where I left off the other day which was on the threshold of some major psychological intervention. I couldn't even tell you the color of Dr. O's couch. I can only tell you that he did, indeed, have one. Dr. O himself is a pretty non-descript fellow. Mid-50's, average height, average build. The first 5 minutes of our session he told me that he was married, that he had a 15 year old son, where he lived, where he grew up, where he went to school, what degrees he had earned, what jobs he has had. I mean he told me even more stuff about himself but I was too stunned to even process it all. I have never had a therapist just give me that kind of information unprompted before. It was just bizarre and yet...I liked it. I liked peering behind what is typically this inpenetrable wall, that hard stone wall the therapist puts up lest you discover that he is, in fact, also a human. So, score one for Dr. O.


The session consisted of him asking me a bunch of uncomfortable questions, which I fully expected to be asked, and me answering them the best I possibly could, and mostly as honest as I could. I couldn't really lay all the crazy out on the table all at once. You have to work up to that. So, yeah, I told a few white lies. Sue me. I was honest about the really important stuff, the extreme vagaries of mood, tendency towards social withdrawal, and most importantly I confessed to the suicidal ideation. And, of course, as soon as you start talking about bridge jumping and shit you can just see the panic swell up in the therapist. It makes me feel bad because, really, handing a person your suicidal thoughts is equivalent to handing him a squirming handful of maggots. The doctor then started with the requisite, "Do you have plan?" Schtick.


Now, if I did have a plan (I do not) and really wanted to carry it out, I sure as fuck wouldn't tell a person who could stop me from doing so. Why in the name of all that's holy would I do that? I tried to explain to him that I am a very rational person, generally, who has been having disturbing thoughts come unbidden and unwelcome into my mind. That I am a person who has been plagued by intense emotional pain and bizarre thoughts my entire life, but recently it has all gotten progressively worse. I am to the point of breaking. "Things fall apart. The center will not hold."

He was freaked the fuck out by me, I could tell. When I jokingly said, "So, am I officially crazy?" He laughed nervously and then after a pause, a long drawn-out "Nooooo". He said, "But I am going to need you to see a psychiatrist for a consult."

"I'm not going to be taking any psychiatric medication. So, I don't really see the point of that."

"Well, given the...um...severity of your problems...I would just...uh...umm...feel better to have a second pair of clinical eyes evaluate you. It won't hurt to get...well...to get a second opinion."

This is humiliating to me. This request. But I tried to follow through on it, after arguing with my insurance company for an in-network list, which took several phone calls. The first couple of people I talked to told me that there weren't any in-network psychiatrists in my area. I had to call back several times before I got someone who I could coax out of her idiocy. After much annoyance, I had the list in hand. I called about 15 people on the list. And every one I called was either not taking new patients or couldn't see me for several months. One bitch sighed loudly when I told her the insurance I had (Blue Cross/Blue Shield). When I asked her what the problem was she said, "Well, we've been having problems with them paying. But that's not your fault." Of course, after she said that I started to feel like it was my fault, like I was this big fucking problem. I am big fucking hassle to everybody. Why would anybody want to help me? Of course, no one wants to help me. I'm just annoying everyone. Who the fuck do I think I am? Somebody that actually matters? See. This is how I unravel from one little comment. "It doesn't take much to rip us in to pieces."

I can't do this. I'm more stressed out and hopeless than I was before I began this process. I feel like shit about myself. I feel this tremendous weight of guilt for even embarking on this pointless endeavor. Of course, nobody wants to fucking help me. They can hear it in my voice that I am a fucking black hole, a bottomless, vile pit of need.

Dr. O. called me a few minutes ago. "Umm, hi Gwen. I think I gave you the wrong time for our appointment Monday. I can't see you at 2:45 after all. Could you come at 2:15 instead?"

This is the part where I realize that I am a piece of shit, worthless human being that is just inconveniencing everybody's fucking lives.