God’s house is closed for business

Restaurant's "Sorry we're Closed" sign

Today I became angry at my psychiatrist. This is a new experience for me. I am angry at Doc, and can hardly see straight.  It all began when Doc asked me how I was doing today. I had a hard time articulating that I was having a hard time because it was *that* day, the day the unthinkable happened 4 years ago. When I finally told him what day it was he started using the R word over and over again. I finally just became angry at him, and asked him to stop. Doc then started talking about that’s what happened to me (the R word), and I cut him off because I did not want to hear it. Then he pointed out that it still upsets me. We have a genius on our hands peeps!

Then, somehow, we started talking about my dissociation. I don’t recall how we got on that topic.

Based on what I shared about my dissociation Doc then announced to me that he was changing my diagnosis to “dissociative disorder not otherwise specified.” Then he started asking me questions where he was addressing “all the parts of me!” That just scared me, and threw me. I didn’t understand why he was doing that. To me, it sounded like he thought I might have DID, and I asked him if he thought I had that. He said he didn’t know yet, but that it didn’t matter. Whatever I had I had, it was just a label. Easy for him to say. I kept asking what all this meant-the diagnosis change, asking questions of all the parts of me. Finally he just got exasperated with my questions, and said that it doesn’t matter because the diagnosis does not change the core of me. Still, though, it mattered to me.

Just like that, with a flick of the pen, I went from being diagnosed with PTSD to having that revised to a diagnosis of dissociative disorder not otherwise specified, with a possible revision later.

The session ended, and I was mad and upset. I’m sure it was obvious, but he just said, “I’ll see you on Thursday.” Okay. Glad to not make you late for lunch. (Our session ended at noon.)

I left his office in tears, and noticed the cute little Lutheran church right across the street from his office. I wanted, more than anything, to sit in a quiet church. I pulled open the door, or rather, I tried to pull open the door. But, it was locked. The church was closed in the middle of the day. Perhaps I’m naive, but I thought churches were at least open during the day for people to go in and pray, if they so choose. Maybe not? I don’t know where I got this idea, but I was incorrect in this presumption.

It also felt incredibly lonely in the world at that moment. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful day, but there I was trying to pry open the door to a closed church with snot all over my face from crying, a very fine moment for me, indeed.

So, I made myself go to this art sculpture park that was nearby. It was weird. I tried to like it, but I couldn’t conjure a like for it.

Then I called a work friend to ask her about an assignment she was covering for me since I was off today. She told me it was taken care of, and there was nothing to worry about. I then thanked her for being nice to me, and started to cry. Poor thing, that really threw her.

Right now, I just can’t think of what I talked about with Doc. It scares me, and I am so mad at him for just side-swiping me with this information.

Oh, yeah, and God, I’d like to address you as well while I’m at it … how do you feel about the closed churches during the day? Surely that does not please you. I don’t get it. Your house should be open for business, at least at noon on a Tuesday.

(Photo credit: Nick Papakyriazis)

Days later, the pain continues …

I was once asked by a yoga teacher what freedom would look like for me. It was an easy answer. Sleep, restful, nonscary sleep would be such sweet freedom.

And, in this moment, I would also choose to stop shaking. I’ve been shaking off and on all day today. I talked about the Freddy Bear post today in therapy. I still cry when I read it. Out of all of my posts, it’s the only one that makes me cry again and again and again. I had no idea that I even had any pain or loss around Freddy. Up until I wrote about him, if you had asked me about him I would have described him as my youngest brother with whom I am not very close. Period. I would not have thought about it any further than that.

I would like to write further, but this is too hard for me right now, so I’ll sign off for now.

Not the couch again …

Last night I may have bit off more than I could chew. My letter to Freddy Bear kicked my ass. I am surprised that this was the hardest piece thus far for me to write. I just started crying in the middle of it. Then I just slept on the couch. The couch is where I sleep when I am not doing well. My couch is very close to my front door, and my hyper vigilance kicked in, which meant that I would be catching zzz’s on that red couch.

Writing that piece broke a dam in me that I didn’t even know existed. I have to get it together because I have two papers due tomorrow in two graduate courses. Bad timing!

I did a whole bunch of things to try to feel better today:

  • I went to my favorite diner for Eggs Benedict,
  • Walked through Petsmart to see dogs,
  • Sat in the Barnes and Noble cafe and read dog magazines, and
  • I ate watermelon for dessert.

Still, though, I think I’m going to be sleeping on the couch again tonight.