The Kids Aren’t Alright

And by “the kids” I mean me. I just needed a catchy title. I’m fresh off another hospitalization and knee deep in an ongoing war with my insurance company to get the one treatment that actually works for me reauthorized. My parents and I have had to go full “I was told by Applecare” on United Healthcare, Optum Behavioral Health, and Johnson & Johnson.

But that’s really beside the point of this post. While spending my days in the hospital laying under the covers in my room, instead of attending groups, I had way too much time in my own head. Something I took for granted while outside of the hospital, was the array of distractions I was using to ignore the root causes of parts of my depression. I was overworking and overbooking myself. Always had the tv on, my phone in my hand, or my laptop in front of me. I was using screentime to drown out intrusive thoughts. I haven’t been able to go to sleep without my Kindle Fire playing something next to me because of just how dark my thoughts do get at night. I had none of this in the hospital and had to face a lot of issues head-on. But not really, because you don’t get any actual therapy in the hospital. Yeah, it’s funny to me too. *Allen Iverson voice*

So I had no way of coping with my triggers while I was in there. I also hadn’t realized just how many triggers I have or how bad my PTSD is. Women yelling didn’t bother me, but as soon as a man raised his voice my heart rate and blood pressure skyrocketed. Going over the intake questions and being asked about whether physical restraints helped me calm down or made me more agitated caused flashbacks to being sexually assaulted. Being trapped in an enclosed space having to constantly listen to narcissistic men gaslight me threw me into a shaking, crying, rage. Sitting with my dad during visiting hours, saying no more than a few sentences shined a huge light on how far apart we are and how angry I am with him for a pattern of behavior I’ve watched since I was a child. Trying to advocate for myself with doctors while trying not to come off as the “angry Black woman” and still being dismissed and ignored made my blood feel like it was on fire. I had no way to escape all of this and no way to distract myself besides reading, and even that wasn’t enough. While my hospitalization did nothing to alleviate my depression and anxiety, it did open my eyes to what I need to work on.

Fast forward to coming out of the hospital. I was supposed to start an IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program) 5 days a week, 6 hours a day, and a copay of $59 per day (which I couldn’t afford anyway). I gave it a shot and didn’t last an hour. I refuse to spend the bulk of my days surrounded by middle-aged white women in a heavy trump (I intentionally don’t capitalize his name) voting county trying to empathize or ignore bigoted views which never fail to come up. I don’t think many people realize just how important it is to be able to relate to and feel comfortable with the people you are in group therapy with. Having done this countless times before I could feel that this wasn’t a safe space for me. I can’t open up about the constant fear and anxiety I have that is directly related to the policies of the current administration. I can’t tell them that I’m always in a hypervigilant state, not just because of my history of abusive relationships, but also because there is a blatant disregard for Black lives in this country that leaves me feeling hopeless, helpless, and constantly grieving. I can’t explain the very special type of discrimination that comes with being both Black and a woman. I’ve done groups and IOPs many times over with white women and even at this very vulnerable state, they will still weaponize their tears when addressed claiming I am the aggressor or hostile. I’m not subjecting myself to that again. So I went back to one on one therapy with my Black woman therapist.

That first therapy session after I was discharged from the hospital was probably the most open and honest I’ve been in my 2+ years as a client. I’ve always had trouble expressing my thoughts verbally, but I had left so much unsaid that it all came tumbling out. I had to admit that I still live in fear of running into my attacker again or him showing up at my apartment. I had to come to terms with how dealing with him and my ex’s emotional abuse has broken my ability to trust and makes me push people away. I finally said out loud that I felt stupid for not recognizing red flags of an abuser, even though I was in the middle of aggressive emotional manipulation. I shared that I don’t talk about my abuse much because of a fear of invalidation by people who would say “others had it so much worse.”

I finally realized just how similar my mom and I are. We both want to fix/help people to our own detriment. Knowing that the people we choose to keep in our lives are a hindrance to our own growth and well-being, but also wondering if we deserve any better. I’ve taken on her “Fuck it. I’ll just do it” way of handling situations where there should be an equal effort by all parties involved, but the brunt of everything is left on my shoulders. We are both the just going through the motions of life in order to stay afloat, but the joy has been stripped away.

I realized that I feel neglected by my dad. Although he was always physically in the home, he was mentally somewhere else. When I was little we spent so much time together; going on road trips, fishing, site seeing, going to museums, etc. We were doing the things he enjoyed and enjoyed them because I got to spend time with my dad. As I got older my interests started to develop and change, and with that so did his interest in me. I would try to talk to him about things I was excited about or interested in and it was like talking to Ben Stein. He had a flat affect and all I ever got as a response was mmhhmm or ok. This was around the time I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder so my own awareness and expressions of my emotions were skewed. My frustration and resentment came out in fits of rage and the only way I knew how to describe my feelings towards him was hate. My reactions did nothing to help improve our relationship and we’ve struggled ever since to find a connection.

I went into the hospital with my issues running about like a litter of kittens, unable to be caught or held onto for long enough to wrangle the others. They are still running amock, but at least now I have collars and tags that allow them to be identified. On the bright side, I have located a starting point of the work that needs to be done that I probably wouldn’t have found had I not been in the hospital. However, I wonder if I have the strength and energy to really solve these problems, but I’m still going to try.