I am giving up on therapists and psychiatrists alike. Last week I called to schedule my usual 3 month follow up with my psychiatrist and was told he is no longer with the company… instant panic attack…
“Can I schedule you an appointment with another doctor?” the girl on the other end of the phone asked with distain.
I have been going to the same psychiatrist office for 6 years. I’ve had 4 (this would now be my 5th) different therapists.
Each time the company lets my current psych. go, they charge me a new patient intake fee of $450.00 and treat me like a new patient… asking me all of the usual boring and pointless questions so that this new doctor can get to know me.
I have abandonment issues and this company keeps shuffling me around different doctors like I’m an only child in between foster homes. I’m starting to wonder if they even understand anxiety and panic disorder?
My heart is pounding out of my chest as I write this. I cannot go through another therapist. I cannot go through another intake.
Unfortunately, this means I am going to have to ween myself off my anxiety medication. I never benefited from the talk portion of therapy. Maybe it is because I have never connected with a doctor. Not one that made me feel safe.
Doctors, especially psychiatrists, are such judgmental people! Like they’re fucking perfect? Please.
UPDATE 4/10/21: Just received a voicemail from my psychiatrist office to reschedule my “intake” appointment on Tuesday because THAT provider is no longer with the company. What the fuck?
Patients should be notified when doctors leave a company and given the opportunity to follow them or stay with the company. How is having a different psychiatrist each year helpful to someone’s mental health? It’s not.
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I’m pacing around my house while watching the sun quietly rise from the Oceanside. The piercing light is slowly getting louder as I continue my method-free pacing (is there ever a method to pacing? Maybe if you have OCD?).
I’m worried because I have no idea what purpose I’m meant for. I don’t know what to do with my life. I don’t know how to get back to work full swing again.
I’ve been using my time off trying to heal from past and recent traumas. I’m grateful to have this time “off” so I can reconnect with who I am. Rediscovering yourself is a magical thing. But not knowing who you are or what you should be doing can be terrifying.
Do I continue with this domestic bliss lifestyle I’ve been living? Do I follow my passions? Do I drop everything and everyone to run after my childhood dreams?
There doesn’t seem to be a concrete answer. At least, not an answer that doesn’t involve pain.
I make myself feel crazy sometimes. Overthinking, overthinking, overthinking… 💭
I had a pretty good day yesterday. Got a lot of things checked off my to do list. Waking up early again makes me feel happier. I need a second cup of coffee though. I feel sluggish right now… blah, blah, blah.
There’s a deep chill in the air and violent winds gusting outside.
My ADD has been running wild lately. I started writing this post at 8am, it’s now 10:45am. I’m too easily distracted. I end up working on multiple things at once and then have to come back to finish what I started first, then second, and so on.
📸 credit: me 😊
I’m living a MUCH different life than I was a few years ago. I moved out and away from toxic relationships. But the toxic environment still exists at my mother’s house; where my younger sister has been living with her children and on-again-off-again boyfriend and baby daddy. They’re both grown adults. My mother is a disabled, but still an adult and owner of the house. Yet, they expect me to always take care of whatever problematic expense comes up.
I don’t live there anymore. They don’t know how to take care of ANYTHING. From phones, to cars, to houses, and everything in between.
Things need to be cared for. I need to be cared for. After 12 years of taking care of my mother, I am finally caring for myself… somewhat beginning to heal from all of the trauma. I’m still remember things that happened years ago. I’m still finding physical scars from my childhood. I’m still finding myself. I’m still finding my happiness.
I deserve to be happy. My sister and her boyfriend don’t want to take care of the house and replace sump pumps. They let the basement flood with water, which ruined the furnace. So they have been living on space heaters… probably burning out the electrical panel. I NEVER had the problems they’ve been having in the 12+ years I lived there. And when I did, like the sump pump burning out for example, I would go out and buy a new one on a credit card to make sure the basement didn’t flood.
They’ve only lived there for two years. They’ll have the house down in another year. It’s hard to explain the lifestyle they live… middle-class white-trash? They spend money as soon as it comes in. They never save money. They don’t care about things that most people would. They don’t even have a car.
And I suffer. I enjoy cooking, so I went out and bought myself a enamel cast iron Dutch oven (that was one clearance with an additional 20% off and I used a $25 gift card my future in-laws gave me for Christmas… I like to buy, but I don’t like to pay full price haha I really scored a deal)! Later, my sister texted me that “BOTH sump pumps have burned out and they’re over 30 days old so she cannot return/exchange them”. She does it in a way to make me feel guilty. I give her tough love and then she stops talking to me.
I wish I had the money to help my family and strangers, but I don’t. I’m in debt myself. I live modestly.
My family never helped me when I was in need…
I’m prone to nervous breakdowns. Don’t ask why. I can only assume it’s because I’m an empath who has endured years of trauma and abuse.
The stress consumes me. Literally. I no longer feel or act like myself. Something else takes rein and I am… stoic.
I lash out at those close to me. Okay, the only person close to me: my poor loving fiancé.
After I eventually calm down from klonopin kicking in, I immediately feel the remorse.
What have I done? What have I said? How had I acted? I’m ready to go hide forever in the darkness that eats my soul slowly.
I am so sorry, babe. I love you.
I hate being inside my brain. It’s worse than being at war; I could only come to calculate. it’s not a good place for me to be, man. It’s bad.
It’s really bad.
Depression is debilitating. Fellow sufferers understand. There are days when I have to fake my way through everything.
And then there’s good days. When I get dressed up in clothes that still fit me from high school or college. I feel good. I feel like me. I’m reminded of my once youthful energetic ambitions. I’m reminded of how independent I was.
I’m reminded of a life long gone… while those memories feel like yesterday, the truth is, they’re simply 10+ year-old memories now. Nothing more.
They’re reminders that I might not be able to be the person I once was, but I can grow from where I’ve been.
I like the person I’m becoming. 🧡
I regret not pursuing my dreams to make other people happy.
I regret giving up on my dreams.
Now, I think of the energy it takes me to do anything and I get burned out before doing anything.
Perhaps the truth is: I’m the only person I can blame for giving up on my dreams. They were mine. They didn’t belong to anyone else. They were my responsibility to chase. I failed them.
I failed my dreams. 💔
There’s so much that people don’t know about me. Because there’s so much I still don’t even know about myself.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
How is it possible to feel I’ve lived a magnitude of various lifestyles that have granted me permission to experience a life I would have otherwise evaded?
Sometimes it feels like a gift. A precious and magical gift that has given me a depth of color in this mono-chrome world. Experiences I can now share and pass on.
However, it’s not an easy story to share. Things are difficult to even write down.
I’ve had money. I’ve lived without heat or hot water during a frigid winter. I’ve lived alone. I’ve lived with others. I’ve danced with demons. I’ve been anxious. I’ve lived freely. I’ve lived wildly. I’ve experienced addictions. I’ve lived through relationships. I’ve survived traumas. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve lied. I’ve be honest. I’ve worn my heart on my sleeve. I’ve been cold towards good people. I’ve seen death. I’ve spoken to death. I’ve walked away. I’ve been the one that got away. I’ve loved animals. I’ve hated humans. I’ve listened to music; sober and high. I’ve watched some fantastic and some utter garbage movies; sober and high. I’ve been sober. I’ve been high. I’ve felt real pain. I’ve felt true love. I’ve smoked enough cigarettes to burn down the east coast. I’ve been popular. I’ve been a secluded hermit. I’ve had friends. I’ve avoided enemies. I’ve walked down familiar paths with familiar people. I’ve taken roads less traveled with complete strangers. I’ve taken chances. I’ve had dreams… crushed by others, erased voluntarily, and some preserved for only myself.
The facts of life can sometimes make it feel like a curse. A black cloud who has befriended me and shall never leave my side…
I kinda miss the early days of web logs. Dead Journal and Xanga were the shit. Even MySpace; a lot of people used the blog feature on there and it created more content for users to read. Now, we live in the age of instant gratification and videos.
Do people even read blogs any more?
I feel as though my life has been one big collage of missed opportunities.
There are so many topics, events, and mindless thoughts I need to update on soon. Until then… trying to think of what to make for dinner and then going to pick out a movie to watch with my love on this Friday evening.