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 |  A journey of self-improvement - or not. |
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Sup? I'm Char. You may know me from timeless classics such as
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[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Believin' all the lies that they're tellin' ya Buyin' all the products that they're sellin' ya They say jump and ya say "how high?" Ya braindead, ya got a fuckin' bullet in ya head |
Artist: Sponge Song: Plowed [Embed For Use By Upgraded+]  "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS"  Prompt: Write about a time you were caught off guard, surprised, or had the rug pulled out from under you. How did you recover?It's kind of sad that this was my first thought, but I tend to believe in going with whatever comes to mind first with these kinds of prompts, so here we go... Back in 2017(?), I was in desperate need of psychological intervention. I was on summer break from school, and I knew if I didn't get myself set straight quickly, I wouldn't be returning in the fall. I won't go into a ton of detail because that's not the essential point of the story, but my reason for needing intervention was that I was actually in a really bad OCD spiral. That means I was spending hours a day on compulsions, having constant intrusive thoughts, not sleeping, and having daily panic attacks. I was determined to get back to school so I found a therapist who specialized in anxiety disorders. She got me in quickly (I believe on the request of my neurologist) because it was fairly pressing. I went in to see her on a hot summer afternoon. I liked her office immediately. It was very bright and airy with the blinds open and all white furniture with pastel accents. Not stuffy or serious like a lot of therapy offices. I explained to her everything that was going on and we worked together to build a "Get Charlie back to school" plan. At this point, I'll tell you the end of the story. The end of the story is that a couple months into our twice a week visits, I found out I would be losing my insurance and thus losing my ability to pay for our visits. That wasn't the "rug pulled under me" part. The "rug pulled under me" part was that my therapist went from being a warm, compassionate, empathetic person to a disinterested, disengaged, mildly sympathetic at best person when I told her I was losing my insurance and couldn't afford $200 sessions twice a week. That rocked my brain because we worked really well together. We'd had somewhere around 16-20 hour-long sessions, and for those who haven't had therapy, that's actually a lot of time to have someone digging around in your psyche. I wouldn't say she was a world class psychologist, but she was certainly the best therapist I'd had. She did everything a therapist should do. She actively listened, absorbed my emotions, asked carefully crafted, thoughtful questions that challenged me. She was actively doing her own research outside of our sessions to come up with possible intervention methods for the specific way that my OCD was manifesting. I saw her on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. She would regularly say things to me like, "Hey, I was thinking over the weekend about something you said Thursday..." Or, "I'm reading this book about X and I photocopied some pages I want you to read before our next session." Basically, she seemed actively involved in my recovery. She told me on numerous occasions that she found me to be very charming and intelligent and that she believed I would succeed if we could break this cycle of intrusive thoughts and compulsions. So, as you can imagine, it was quite shocked when she essentially dropped me like I was on fire the moment I told her about losing my health insurance. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she almost seemed angry at me. I got this energy off of her like I'd betrayed her or something. Mind you, I still had a couple weeks of insurance left when I gave her a heads up about this, so like 4 more sessions. She told me right away that they'd accept nothing less than the full cash payment for appointments. (Some places offer reduced costs for patients who pay out-of-pocket.) And the remainder of our appointments were just kind of cold and awkward. She would start to explore a thought and then comment on how she didn't want to "pull that thread" since we'd not be able to fully tie it up. She kept telling me she'd get some alternative resources together and check in with some of her colleagues that might charge less. She never did. During my last session, we just kind of sat there staring at each other. She didn't curl her legs up in the chair beneath her as usual. I remember thinking how ironic it was that her office and our sessions became more stuffy and serious with time. And that was it. I left with the general thought that we were both pissed off for whatever reason. I was just totally numb. Now, how did I recover? That's a great question. I'm not sure I really did given that this situation came to mind when reading the prompt. I was able to go back to school under her guidance, so that was a success. But it left a stain on my experience with therapy. It was the first time I felt like I was working with someone to resolve my issues. I had confidence in her handling of me that I don't think can be easily regained. That was the last therapist I willingly saw. The following year I was in the hospital for a month and had mandated therapy then and following my hospital stay. The therapists were garbage. Asserting their authority by telling me how I felt and why. Talking over me. Telling me about their problems during my therapy sessions. Guilt tripping me into taking meds or following their treatment plan. Just not listening to or involving me in my recovery at all. It was obviously largely unsuccessful. The funny thing is that the same season a few years later, I've been struggling with OCD flares due to the pandemic. And I have health insurance now. I could easily go back to that therapist. But I won't. How can I trust her? How can I trust any therapist to handle me knowing that if money or insurance ever becomes an issue they're going to completely shut down on me and cut me off? No thanks. I don't think I'll ever willingly go to therapy again, regardless of how bad things get. To see wide open with a head that's broken |
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