Smart Psychiatrist Man Says...

Smart Psychiatrist Man (SPM) found me "fascinating." Imagine that being said dryly and emotionlessly while being stared at through watery blue eyes peering from behind relatively clean thick glasses. Apparently, after all the testing, and in spite of my family history of mental illness, the only conclusive diagnosis he can pin on me is PTSD, which I already knew I had. There is no residual chronic depression (he says that being sad is different from clinical depression). Schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, Alzheimer's, substance addiction, and clinical depression have high instance in my family--and often those illnesses can be exacerbated by PTSD. It seems, however, that I have none of those, and that my only illness is brought on by trauma/violence in my past. SPM said that was very interesting. He also said that we could treat the symptoms of PTSD with drugs if I would like that. Symptoms would include nightmares and social phobias. I asked if the drugs would be lifelong. SPM suggested that was a possibility. I asked for alternatives. He smiled and said the alternatives require much more work and can be frustrating. He said especially for the nightmares, the work was extremely intense. I asked if he was talking about guided dreams. He said yes, and then used a more official sounding term for what I've been doing since January. I explained to him the process I'd used to control my nightmares, and included the fact that I'd had a partner to help. SPM asked me why I was no longer using my methods, assuming they were no longer effective. I told him that my partner had taken the place of my cousin as my attacker. SPM's smile got larger. He said that whenever crisis occurs in the life of someone who has PTSD, it is normal for that person to feel that a close, safe person is now dangerous--hence the nightmares and other erratic behavior. SPM said he was surprised that Therapist had not taken on the role of attacker in my dreams, but then added that I was a little bit unusual. Thanks.

SPM told me that I could figure out the dreams once again, gave me some preliminary tools to use, and mapped out some guidelines he thought would be helpful. I left that particular session feeling huge relief. I've been consumed with guilt that I would dream such awful things about a loved one--especially since he would never be capable of hurting me in violent ways. I thought I was losing my mind, and I was really sad about the feelings of fear and distrust I was experiencing. The most helpful thing SPM told me was that everything I was going through was normal within the realms of PTSD. He also agrees that I don't need to be on meds for the rest of my life (or at all, if that's my choice), that my actions in the past eight months, especially with directional dreaming and increased social interaction with men (no, I didn't give details of my choice of men with whom to socialize) were proof that I could take control of those things and manage them in my life. He also was firm that I work with a therapist who had a background in dealing with PTSD, so that I'd learn to recognize symptoms and not ignore them to the point where I'd end up back in the hospital.

It's sort of hard to think about this, because I keep believing that if the trauma in my past had not occurred, I'd be really well-adjusted and normal. But then I remember that SPM said that the sum of our experiences contribute to who we are. He mentioned that parts of the psyche evaluations measure self-concept (personal beliefs about self). He said that even though I have lingering doubts about self-worth, I also have a deep belief that I'm of worth--evinced by my desire to make changes and work toward resolution of the emotional distress I'm going through. A person with less self-esteem would feel too defeated to begin, and there would be much time spent building that person to the point where actual work could begin. I don't have to do that preliminary stuff because, as SPM said, I "have a fairly high opinion of [myself], but not an inflated ego-image." That's a good thing. So even though I believe without the abuse experience I'd still be pretty amazing, the fact that it happened and I'm still me is amazing in and of itself.

I thought as I walked into the hospital that I had lost everything I've fought so hard to gain over the past eighteen months. I believe differently today. It was just one more point on the learning curve. My Bishop, Therapist Number Two (TNT), and a couple of nurses all assured me that I'm going to be okay. I believe them.

"And if you claim there is a hell, then we shall meet there."

I am not a good hospital patient.

Well, the first twenty-four hours I was, but as soon as I found the answers that made everything make sense again, life became beautiful...and sort of hilarious. It's impossible to survive three days and two nights in a lockdown mental facility without a sense of humor.

I was provided the following toiletries (none of my own were allowed):
1. toothpaste/brush
2. deoderant (not to be confused with anti-perspirant, which is another thing altogether)
3. a bar of soap
4. hand lotion
5. contact lens care kit
This ensured that I wash my hair with hand soap. Not knowing what else to do, and assuming that it would imitate conditioner (and plus, it smelled like coconut--the only scented thing in the whole place), I used the hand lotion on my hair, as well, and then gave thanks to the Lord that there are no mirrors in the entire ward.

I was issued a pair of scrubs so immense that I could easily have hosted a dinner party inside of them. Imagine Samantha wandering about the psyche ward in a shirt falling off her shoulders, but being too preoccupied with making certain the pants stayed up to care too much about the shoulder thing. Finally, on day two, a male nurse suggested he might be able to find me something a little more attractive--but a men's small is still rather large--only a small dinner party could be hosted inside the new scrubs. Sigh...

Characters of interest in the Behavoioral Health Unit:
1. A person I am supposed to visit teach--but she's that sister who makes the appointment and then is never home...we all have them...anyway, I introduced myself and suggested that I was so desperate to see her that I'd admitted myself to the psyche ward when I knew she'd be coming. Then I asked if she'd allow me to share the May Visiting Teaching message with her. Then I cracked up. I'm so hilarious.
2. Psychiatrist Man who knows everything, doesn't think I'm crazy (just a little unwell...yeah, he actually sang a bit of that for me), and has no expression whatsoever. He was pretty wonderful, and just what I needed to get back on track.
3. Therapist Number One (TNO) who had no idea what to do with me because Psychiatrist Man told her I was pretty advanced in my therapy, so he was uncertain if a project would be of help to me. As projects are how TNO deals with all her patients, she was somewhat put out and found one for me anyway (which I chose not to do). She told me she expected me to take the project seriously and report to the therapist who would be taking her place the next day. I giggled and said, "You're not serious!" She assured me that she was. I ignored her.
4. Psychiatrist Woman (Asian with very pretty legs...) who analyzed and reported on my psyche tests. She was confused because the tests showed conflicting results. She asked if I knew why. I told her I thought it might be because one can only answer three true/false questions before becoming bored. Answering 995 was cruel, unusual punishment and I probably wasn't paying particularly close attention toward the end. She said, "Well, then we'll have to do some of this orally." Fine by me--she was lovely company. Darrin agrees with me.
5. Therapist Number Two (TNT) who made certain I attended group therapy from 8:45 a.m. till 3:30 p.m. (half-hour lunch break) today. Group Therapy became Samantha therapy as all other participants started dropping out after lunch. By 1:30, I was on my own and in a one-on-one session with a very earnest, serious TNT. I wanted to drop out, as well, but more than that, I wanted to go home. I finished the therapy sessions.
6. Mr. Harris, the older man with Alzheimer's. This was genuinely a huge highlight for me. Mr. Harris decided that I was the newest doctor in the ward. He was adept at swiping patient charts and bringing them to me. No one could understand the constant stream of words he muttered, but occasionally something intelligible slipped out. After I had refused the sixth patient chart, he said clearly, "Well, you can only do the best you can do. That's all anyone can ask..." then shuffled away, disappointed that I didn't want his offerings. During the second evening, a psych tech lost a small piece of paper and exclaimed about it in Mr. Harris' hearing. Mr. Harris immediately began searching his pockets for the paper, then moved behind the desk and began rifling through open file folders and other confidential materials. Four nurses tried to distract him away from his task, but he intended to find that paper. A male nurse held up a nearby magazine and called, "Mr. Harris, come look at this magazine with me. Look--it's Patrick Dempsey! The hottest male star in America!!" Then he turned to the rest of us and sheepishly said, "Well, that's what it says..."
Amazingly, Mr. Harris moved to admire the sexy Patrick, and the nurses cleaned up his mess while giggling at the two men reading the women's magazine. Male nurse said, "Hey, whatever works...and Patrick Dempsey is hot anyway..." Finally, to make my stay complete, Mr. Harris decided to move into my room with me. Six times the nurses moved him back to his own room, but he was determined. Finally they dragged me out of my beloved group therapy and asked me to verbally reclaim my territory, feeling that if I told Mr. Harris to leave my room, he would. I started giggling and said, "No way!! I'm leaving this afternoon. As far as I'm concerned, if he wants my room, he can have it." The nurses started talking about legalities and liabilities. I grinned and went back to therapy. When I returned, my room was intact, and Mr. Harris was sitting in the hallway, peacefully coloring in a coloring book.

Finally, about an hour before discharge I was allowed to wear my own clothes (wow--they smell so nice!) Visiting Teachee gave me a hug good-by, TNT breathed an audible sigh of relief, Mr. Harris tried to kiss me (thank you, sexy blonde nurse, for saving me from that privilege), and Patrick Dempsey Admirer Nurse escorted me to the ground floor and out the door. The first thing I did when I got home was shower...for a long, long time.