Except uh huh, yup. It fits, I will begrudgingly admit. My foray into mental illness began around a year ago after being diagnosed with acute PTSD. I'd been rather violently assaulted under semi-random circumstances (meaning that while I knew him personally, if I hadn't been conveniently available, another woman would have suited his purposes just as well.) I ended up with a therapist that not only knows her stuff, but is always two steps ahead of me, constantly keeping that light bulb over my head illuminated. Yeah, she's good. Really good. And I trust her completely under most circumstances.
During the month of April I went through the trifecta of blows; I was already dreading the anniversary date of the assault at the end of May and wondering how I would handle it, and I had a trial at which my testimony would likely be required, also toward the end of May. It was a draw which one was the more frightening event, the anniversary or his trial, but in the midst of these, my home life deteriorated when some extremely bad decisions based on naive trust left me emotionally stunned and financially bankrupt.
Something snapped. Regardless of how intuitive Pat the Wondertherapist was, there were things going on in my head that I simply could not share nor could I allow her to even suspect. Suicidal ideations have frequently popped up during this last year, but being a woman of logic I'm usually able to recognize that this is not the way "healthy" people think, and because I trust Pat, I'm willing to hang in until I can exhale again. This time it was more than illogical thoughts of suicide, though. My thoughts were just plain nuts -- things like being convinced that there was some kind of conspiracy among my friends to have me assaulted because of past transgressions in our friendships -- among others, but that one was probably the least logical. And I knew it wasn't logical, yet I believed it anyway, even though I also believed it couldn't possibly have any basis. And yet, I knew it was true. Very dichotomous thinking, and very confusing.
And humiliating. These are not things I tell other people, even a trusted therapist, because I know they aren't true and I know my thinking is skewed. So if I know these thoughts are not part of reality, I can't be that bad, right? Evidently not right.
The part where Pat realized how delusional I'd become was on April 25, when I'd made the choice to end my life, had it planned to the very detail and felt such a sense of relief that I was nearly euphoric. My intent was not to tell her, but to at least try to cryptically convey that she'd not failed with me; that I'd chosen the most logical and well thought-out option available. I didn't want Pat or anyone else to feel guilty for something that was giving me the glorious relief I'd been seeking.
But remember, Pat is smarter than me. Her thirty years in the biz trumps my zero years. And I'm apparently much more transparent than I thought. It took about ten minutes for her to tell me I was full of it if I was going to sit there and tell her I felt fine, and only five minutes of my illogical rationalizations for her to realize how delusional I was regarding my recent decision. That was the day I went kicking and screaming into a locked unit.
I did two weeks of lockup and two weeks of partial day hospitalization. I suppose the lockup kept me safe and I left realizing how irrational my logic had been. Day hospital helped with getting through the trial and anniversary, and it boosted my self-esteem at the time. But when I was discharged I read my formal diagnosis: Major Depressive Episode with Psychotic Features.
What?! "Psychotic?" What the hell is that supposed to mean? I went between being offended (certain that the diagnosis was wrong) and freaked out that I was worse than I thought. I thought back to the very irrational paranoid beliefs I'd been experiencing and gave it some thought... Finally about two weeks ago I owned up to them in a session with Pat. After she got done bluntly telling me how these are Things I Am Supposed To Tell Her, she also assured me that I'm not nearly as far gone and hopeless as I'd been thinking. But since then she has been having me come in two to three times a week instead of just once.
I've done some research, and apparently psychosis with major depression isn't all that uncommon at times, which makes me feel a little bit better, I guess, because the extreme paranoia and guilt, irrational as I know it is, hasn't completely left. Nor has the suicide desire. I never knew depression could cause psychosis. For that matter, I never thought of myself as someone who could get so severely depressed.
I guess it's the label that freaks me out. I like to at least give the impression that I'm in control of myself, regardless of the truth. And I don't see myself getting much better right now. In fact, as I'm heading out the door here soon to see Pat, I still feel like it's a wasted effort because I seriously doubt I can be helped. I suppose this is another delusion, because if I were anyone else I'd assure them that they're not the first to feel this way, and that life does not stay at this end of the spectrum forever. But this is me, and I know myself, right?
It's just that "psychotic" adjective. I hate it. I wish I understood why everything I read about "depression psychosis" has so many different definitions and interpretations. Most of all I wish none of this had ever happened. But I've been wishing that for more than a year.
During the month of April I went through the trifecta of blows; I was already dreading the anniversary date of the assault at the end of May and wondering how I would handle it, and I had a trial at which my testimony would likely be required, also toward the end of May. It was a draw which one was the more frightening event, the anniversary or his trial, but in the midst of these, my home life deteriorated when some extremely bad decisions based on naive trust left me emotionally stunned and financially bankrupt.
Something snapped. Regardless of how intuitive Pat the Wondertherapist was, there were things going on in my head that I simply could not share nor could I allow her to even suspect. Suicidal ideations have frequently popped up during this last year, but being a woman of logic I'm usually able to recognize that this is not the way "healthy" people think, and because I trust Pat, I'm willing to hang in until I can exhale again. This time it was more than illogical thoughts of suicide, though. My thoughts were just plain nuts -- things like being convinced that there was some kind of conspiracy among my friends to have me assaulted because of past transgressions in our friendships -- among others, but that one was probably the least logical. And I knew it wasn't logical, yet I believed it anyway, even though I also believed it couldn't possibly have any basis. And yet, I knew it was true. Very dichotomous thinking, and very confusing.
And humiliating. These are not things I tell other people, even a trusted therapist, because I know they aren't true and I know my thinking is skewed. So if I know these thoughts are not part of reality, I can't be that bad, right? Evidently not right.
The part where Pat realized how delusional I'd become was on April 25, when I'd made the choice to end my life, had it planned to the very detail and felt such a sense of relief that I was nearly euphoric. My intent was not to tell her, but to at least try to cryptically convey that she'd not failed with me; that I'd chosen the most logical and well thought-out option available. I didn't want Pat or anyone else to feel guilty for something that was giving me the glorious relief I'd been seeking.
But remember, Pat is smarter than me. Her thirty years in the biz trumps my zero years. And I'm apparently much more transparent than I thought. It took about ten minutes for her to tell me I was full of it if I was going to sit there and tell her I felt fine, and only five minutes of my illogical rationalizations for her to realize how delusional I was regarding my recent decision. That was the day I went kicking and screaming into a locked unit.
I did two weeks of lockup and two weeks of partial day hospitalization. I suppose the lockup kept me safe and I left realizing how irrational my logic had been. Day hospital helped with getting through the trial and anniversary, and it boosted my self-esteem at the time. But when I was discharged I read my formal diagnosis: Major Depressive Episode with Psychotic Features.
What?! "Psychotic?" What the hell is that supposed to mean? I went between being offended (certain that the diagnosis was wrong) and freaked out that I was worse than I thought. I thought back to the very irrational paranoid beliefs I'd been experiencing and gave it some thought... Finally about two weeks ago I owned up to them in a session with Pat. After she got done bluntly telling me how these are Things I Am Supposed To Tell Her, she also assured me that I'm not nearly as far gone and hopeless as I'd been thinking. But since then she has been having me come in two to three times a week instead of just once.
I've done some research, and apparently psychosis with major depression isn't all that uncommon at times, which makes me feel a little bit better, I guess, because the extreme paranoia and guilt, irrational as I know it is, hasn't completely left. Nor has the suicide desire. I never knew depression could cause psychosis. For that matter, I never thought of myself as someone who could get so severely depressed.
I guess it's the label that freaks me out. I like to at least give the impression that I'm in control of myself, regardless of the truth. And I don't see myself getting much better right now. In fact, as I'm heading out the door here soon to see Pat, I still feel like it's a wasted effort because I seriously doubt I can be helped. I suppose this is another delusion, because if I were anyone else I'd assure them that they're not the first to feel this way, and that life does not stay at this end of the spectrum forever. But this is me, and I know myself, right?
It's just that "psychotic" adjective. I hate it. I wish I understood why everything I read about "depression psychosis" has so many different definitions and interpretations. Most of all I wish none of this had ever happened. But I've been wishing that for more than a year.
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