Ever since I have seen the psychiatrist, I have felt completely burnt out. I’ve lost my desire to go to the gym and do my cardio step class or Zumba (mind you with the weather outside being as terrible as it is tonight, I wouldn’t be going anywhere anyways). My low back has been bothering me for quite sometime, so I am using a heating pad on it tonight and popped a couple of Ibuprofen.
I had to go through my medical records last night. The psych. wanted to know what meds I’ve been on. Originally I felt relatively ok with it because I thought there was already a list done up. There wasn’t. Instead I had to go through page by page and various memories came back at me.
I see patterns and behaviors that I have had for at least 20 years if not longer. I don’t know why I feel such shame at reading my medical records but I do. I have a feeling it is because I personally feel like a “problem”. Someone who always had symptoms and issues about something. Little did anyone know it wasn’t “nothing”; it was in fact something.
The one that hit me hard was my miscarriage. Reading the medical findings and the procedure I had to have (D & C), the feelings of sadness and anger at my then ex. How he left me to go be with another woman, not realizing I knew something was up, and because I snooped I found out who it was and called her. But the most important part of it all was I was in the hospital alone! To deal with the loss of our child, while he went and partied with someone else.
Memories, lots and lots of memories and not all good either. Relationship issues, abuses, emotional instability, employment instability, binge drinking, so many red flags and yet the common denominator was being told I had chronic depression. I feel ashamed that my life was in such turmoil, that even back then, my inner voice was screaming for someone to notice that I was not well.
Yesterday’s psych appointment makes me feel unsure. How is it one psychiatrist from a Mood Disorder Association can diagnose me Borderline Personality Disorder, yet this man who I met yesterday can diagnose me with several disorders but says he needs to see me a few more times before he can say for sure that I in fact am BPD? I feel like a piece of my identity has yet again been stripped away. I realize doctor’s don’t want you to be identified by a disorder, but to be honest, out of all the disorders I have been assessed as having, BPD is one that without a doubt fits my criteria.
I also have found that with this diagnosis, I have learned about finding therapy from the medical community who understand the disorder, whose medical observations and skills are in working with patients with BPD. I mentioned to the psych. yesterday that I have done group therapy, I’ve also done CBT (Cognitive Behaviorial Therapy), and that I have done it several times and each time I have to go back, I become that much more angrier for having to go to group therapy, yet again. I mentioned to him that I am beyond frustrated that my brain doesn’t seem to remember the skills I have been taught each time I have had to go into program. We spoke about medication and how I’ve been on Effexor XR for 12 years. He says it is a long time, I said yep and it isn’t doing anything anymore.
Opening up my medical records yesterday is like reopening a wound that has scarred and now scabbed. Each time the scabbed is picked at means more bleeding and more unhappiness.
I don’t know if I will ever have a life where I am social and outgoing. I remember “back in the day” I used to be like that. But I realize that I was a very desperate person who would do anything NOT to be alone. If I had to be home, I was on the phone to someone, anyone.
I told him that I felt very flat and he said I didn’t come across as flat. So what, now you are going to second guess what I am saying? The only time I actually felt tears well up was when we spoke about my dog Blaze and how he is my best friend and goes everywhere with me. How he has traveled with me from Alberta to where I am now. My fears of losing him are substantial and the mere thought of him being lost or god forbid death, I panic instantly.
What will it take for my brain to recall things and not shut down? What will it take for me to feel happiness and balanced? What will it take to stick to plans I want to do and not back out at the last minute? What will it take for me to make friends and feel safe in wanting to spend time with them? What will it take for me to not come across as controlling and condescending?
I have a lot more questions just like the ones above. Yet, the memories of my past medical records have brought out feelings of sadness and loss.
Perhaps that is why they are pressed between the pages of my mind….