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)