#maybe the psychologists and shit were right and i do have bpd | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gayluigi · 1 year

Text

Ok, Tumblr, I need your advice

I have come to the realization that I probably have BPD. I thought I had it many years ago, but my psychologist was like “well I don’t treat Cluster B patients, and I would know if you had it”, so I took her at her word. Well, turns out that I probably DO have it, and it’s made my life hell.

I had a friend that I made in 5th grade, let’s call him Jack. He was my very best friend from 5th grade until freshman year of high school. His family was known for moving place to place and completely cutting ties with everyone they knew in their previous life. He moved away when we were in middle school, but miraculously, we kept in contact.

However, freshman year, he suddenly stopped replying to my texts. I was in the midst of a very abusive relationship at the time, so I was already very frazzled. One day, I was home alone, it had been about a week since Jack had replied to my texts, and I was waiting for the other shoe to drop with my ex since I could anticipate when a blowup was about to happen. I was in a very bad place. So, I did a BPD freakout on Jack. I was panicked that I’d never get to see him again, and so I freaked out on him, thereby ensuring that I’d never see him again. I scared him so bad that his mom had to call our house and tell me to stop calling him and that he’d talk to me when he was ready. Turns out, that day was NEVER, and he blocked me on everything and never spoke to me again.

It’s been about 11 years since this happened. At some point, a couple years ago, I was kind of digging for information on him online and I happened across his Tumblr blog. Ever since then, I go to his blog sometimes to check up on him, see how he’s doing, all that. For a while, he was posting some pretty wild stuff, so I didn’t really wanna reach out to him since it didn’t seem like we’d have anything in common these days. Well, I checked his blog tonight, and his blog looks almost exactly like mine in terms of content. I was like “oh shit, we could probably actually be friends now, we’d have stuff in common.”

However. I know that he’d probably just block me as soon as he figured out who I am if I followed him. It would probably freak him the fuck out that I was able to track him down after all this time. For 11 years, I’ve respected his choice to not speak to me. I wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable by reaching out and retraumatizing him. What I did to him that night was NOT okay, and if there was anything I could do to make it better, if I could possibly explain my actions, I would. But doing so would probably scare him.

BUT. There’s still that little teeny weeny optimistic spark inside of me that’s like “maybe it’s been long enough that he’d be ready to talk!” Like, it’s been 11 years. Surely he can’t still be mad at me, right? But even if he wasn’t still mad at me, he’s had all this time to reach out to me, and he hasn’t. That should be enough of a hint that he wants nothing to do with me, right? But yet, that stupid optimistic spark won’t shut the hell up. It keeps telling me to reach out to him, to try to explain myself, to try and make things better. Even though it’s been 11 years and any normal person would’ve long since forgotten about this friendship.

Basically... my question is what the heck do I do? Do I listen to my rational side and stay in my lane? Or do I give into that optimistic spark and try and reach out to him?

BPD and autism make socialization so freaking hard, I swear to god.

#actuallybpd #actuallyautistic #autism #bpd #bpd vent

0 notes

briamichellewrites · 2 years

Text

Jayde was having trouble with her mind. She confided in Jon how lonely she felt sometimes. She also felt that everyone had moved on without her while she was gone. He listened emphatically and he gave advice, which included getting a mental health evaluation done. Was she craving heroin? Sometimes. When did they happen? Anytime. It happened randomly. She also missed Heath. Who was he? Her boyfriend who died in 2008.

That was four years ago. How did he die? It was an accidental overdose of sleep medicine. Even when they fought, he loved her. He asked her how she got involved in drugs. That was Heath. He showed her how to use cocaine and then, heroin. Heroin was what she fell in love with. They were using drugs together. Heroin, cocaine and pills. When he died, her drug use escalated.

She told him about the abuse and how Rachel was conceived. It wasn’t through love. He forced her to have sex with him. If she said no, she was beaten. She didn’t leave him because of the drugs. He didn’t blame her for being too scared to leave. Heroin was a drug he didn’t know much about, except that it was highly addictive. It was. The first time, it was like heaven. She felt the calmest she had felt in a long time. All of the shit in her head disappeared.

Then, she needed more. She showed him her foot, which still had marks from the needle. He sighed. Addiction. Stephanie had accidentally overdosed on heroin after smoking it while in her college dorm. She had been arrested at the hospital while getting treatment but the charges were dismissed. Because of the scare, she promised to never use drugs again.

Jayde had the genetics for addiction from both sides of her family. She tucked her foot back underneath the other leg. Did she have any other marks? No. She only shot up into her foot because it was easier to hide it. Heroin took away three years of her life and there was still a possibility of going back.

If she had never gone to that party, what would she be doing? She didn’t know. Probably working on her projects and being a mom to Ava. Did Adam have anything to do with her addiction? Yeah, he did. He had moved on right after their breakup. That was a stab in the back and heart because she truly loved him. She was too young to get married but she thought that they would be together forever. He was her first boyfriend.

Then, he left and Ava went with him. She hated him for a long time. What about Ava? No, she didn’t blame her. She was a daddy’s girl. It was Adam who hurt her. She also hated Rachel’s father. Her biological father. The only reason why she was with him was because of the drugs. She thought he would treat her better than her last boyfriend, but he didn’t.

“I don’t have flashbacks. I have.… I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like when someone says something triggering and your body thinks you’re going to be hit or beaten. You flinch.”

“Do you have those often”, the psychologist asked.

“I have them occasionally. Maybe twice a week. I also forget that I’m safe around the people who love me. So, I don’t know if I want to say timid.”

“It’s a fear response because you’re afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.”

“Yeah, exactly. My friends have known me for years and I’m still afraid that they are going to hurt me.”

How often was she physically abused? Every day. She was also gaslit. During her interview with the psychologist, Jon sat back and listened. She was doing a great job of explaining what was going on in her head. He also listened as she described the abuse she had endured. It was horrific and heartbreaking. If he could, he would have taken her out of there the first time she was hit and gotten her help.

Her parents were also not mentally well. She told her about them. Her mother’s side had a history of addiction and abuse. Jayde was a third generation addict. After going through her life experiences and symptoms, she was diagnosed as having bipolar with possible Borderline Personality Disorder. BPD was extremely difficult to diagnose because the symptoms resembled other illnesses, such as bipolar and PTSD. The psychologist hesitated about diagnosing her because she wanted to rule out bipolar first.

Mikey, my life is a living hell.He looked up and saw them walking in. What happened? She told him of her diagnosis of bipolar, with a possibility of Borderline Personality Disorder. It was then Rob and Jason walked in and joined the conversation. Are you fucking kidding me? They laughed and Rob asked what was wrong. They were too adorable together. They laughed.

Mike then told them what they were talking about. Bipolar was a serious diagnosis. She had new medication that worked with her ADHD medication.

“I’m thinking of that song by Andy Grammar. Keep Your Head Up or something similar”, she said.

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called. He’s a cool dude. He’s actually from LA.”

“All the cool kids are from LA and Agoura Hills”, she joked.

“What about New Jersey”, Jon asked.

“And New Jersey. Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen. You guys want to know how to embarrass a teenager? Exist.”

They laughed. Jon acknowledged that was accurate. Ava was in that age group where they got embarrassed easily, especially by their parents. She took out her phone because she felt it vibrate in her pocket. It was Leo making sure she was still alive.

I’ve been raised from the dead. I’m kind of in a weird mood. – Jayde

“Leo was making sure I’m still alive. I told him that I’ve become a zombie.”

“What happened to you? You were depressed and now you’re energized”, Jon asked.

“Bipolar. That’s my explanation for everything now. I would go out and do crazy shit but I’m on probation and I really don’t want to go to prison.”

They laughed. Mike asked where Bruno was. He was at home. She walked him before she left, so he used the bathroom. Ava was at school. Otherwise she would have left him with her. Jason wanted him to meet Holmes. She then had the idea of inviting him, Brad, Elisa, Rob and him with Rachel and Cody. He could then bring Holmes. That was a great idea because he loved attention and the kids could give him that. How old were Rachel and Cody?

Rachel was almost four months and Cody was six, almost seven. He loved being a big brother. If he could, he would have her be a baby forever. Were they biologically siblings? Yeah, they had the same mother, different fathers. Jon was going to have to bring Romeo with him the next time he was in LA. Rob agreed he would love that! The last time they saw each other, they were toddlers. Now, they could play together.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Dorothea about having him join us on our next vacation.”

“That’s a possibility. Just let Brad and I know.”

“I will do that.”

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @jovichic-bonjovi4ever @borhap-au @beneathashadytree @duffs-shot-glass @geo-winchester @lokolokong-manunulat

1 note · View note

sadselfhelp · 3 years

Text

Who I Am, And Why I Created This Blog.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Drug Overdose, Suicide, Psychotic Breaks.

Take a walk with me, let me show you around the mind of The Sad Hatter.

There's a lot going on in my head right now, and I feel like I'm on the precipice of something. I'm standing on a cliff's edge and I'm either going to plummet or I'm going to fly. It's been building inside me for a long time, and I can't contain it anymore. So here it is, here's me laid bare, because I need to say this, I need to put it into words. I need to purge it all. To try and make sense of all of this shit in my brain, I think it's time I organize it. I don't know where to begin, but I guess I start at the beginning and make use of the ability to edit.

Before you read this, please be aware of the trigger warnings. And please understand that this is the most honest and open I have been, I really am stripped bare in this piece of writing. It’s not at all pretty, and am I not guiltless in parts. This may well alter whatever opinion you have of me.

I guess the beginning is birth, right? But I don't want to rehash all that trauma, so let me speed through it. Twenty-Eight years ago I was born, violently. I'm serious, I ripped my way out of the womb, and tore that thing apart. I guess I can sort of understand why my mother couldn't love me after that was my first act, collapsing her womb. So let me speedrun this part of the story. Mum didn't want me, gave me to my dad who raised me as a single parent with the help of his parents, until he met my stepmother. Shockingly, she didn't want me either, but because she couldn't get rid of me she decided to physical and psychological torture was the next best thing.

When I was eleven years old I snapped and didn't want to put up with it anymore, so I wrote a goodbye note and then snuck into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of pills. Spoiler alert, I didn't die. I did however end up in a children's home, cue more abuse, little bit of bullying and sexual assault etc.... I snapped again, but instead of turning my anger inwards, I became an absolute bastard. Ok, I still turned it inwards a bit, I had a lot of anger, and now I have a few hundred scars to prove it. But, it turns out that violence can beget violence, and I acted out in every possible way. Racked up a horrifying rap sheet, assault, vandalism, arson, and finally... GBH. I was supposed to get put in a secure unit (child prison – Scottish Edition) but I was always able to talk myself out of trouble.

See, I was this tiny little white girl with big sad eyes and a hell of a sob story, even at the bottom of the food chain I still had privilege. So instead of getting locked up, I just got sent to a different home. And here's the really messed up part, this home was better. The staff were nicer, and nobody hurt me. My behavior literally changed overnight. I went from being charged by the police on a weekly basis, to never getting so much as a pocket money sanction. I will never excuse my actions, nor condone them, but after years of guilt I finally realized that the bad things I did were in retaliation to a bad situation, and though I wasn’t acting like a good person, I’m not a bad person, just a messed up one.

I still refused to go to school though, because though I didn't yet know it at the time, I had severe social anxiety. I was smart, a little too smart to be honest, and I found myself thriving with a private tutor. When the time came to sit my exams, someone fucked up, and despite having record breaking test scores on the pre-exams, I never actually got to sit my standard grades (think SAT's – Scottish Edition). I'm still bitter about that. So by this point in the story, I'm 16, and legally an adult, too old for a children's home. I got turfed to a hostel, and the next few parts of the story are pretty fuzzy to me.

This is where my mental health really started to deteriorate. I bounced between homeless hostels and B&B's for a year or so, until I got a my first flat/apartment. By that point, I was utterly fucked in the head. I was blacking out frequently, for anywhere between a couple of minutes to three days. I would come back to myself in sometimes compromising positions, and once there was blood. A lot of blood, splashed all over the walls. Then there was the time I suddenly found myself standing in the kitchen, about to plunge a knife into my own chest.

Nobody ever did tell me what the hell that was about. Or maybe they did and I just... forgot? But because I was extremely suicidal, a doctor finally decided to do something, and the police and the paramedics came to my door to take me to the psychiatric hospital. I spent ten months there while I cycled through various anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, and was 'rehabilitated into society'. The second I was out, I made the worst decision I have ever made in my life. If I can give you one piece of advice, one lesson to take from my shitshow of a life, it's this: Don't move hundreds of miles away to be with the guy you met online while you were having a psychotic break.

I've never really thought of myself as a victim, but I guess I'm the only one who saw it that way. Ben, that was his name, Ben was a monster, and I didn't know it until it was too late. He never hit me, never lifted a hand to me, he never had to. He could put a knife in my hand and make me hurt myself for his entertainment. I had told him everything, so he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me want to bleed. He locked me in a house and used me up. And when I had enough, and tried to break free of him, he would just tell the police I was mentally ill and they would smile sympathetically and give me back to him.

But then my dad had a breakdown. My dad, who when he found out what my stepmother was doing to me, buried his head in the sand and packed my little suitcase for me. I hadn't spoken to him in a while until he reached out from the same psychiatric ward I had not long vacated. He had cracked under the realization that I had never lied about her, and the guilt broke him apart. I could have hated him, if it had happened a few years earlier then I would have. But I had experienced enough of the world to learn a few things, like how easily it is to fuck up, and that no matter how strong you are, you aren't immune to monsters. The truth was he was as much a victim of her evil as I was. She had manipulated him, played with his head, used his insecurities against him. So I helped him through his issues, the way I wished someone had helped me. That doesn't really make me a good person, it just makes me human.

But my dad got better, and found his footing. And when he did, he realized something wasn't right with me, and I told him the truth about Ben. My dad had left me to suffer at the hands of an abuser once before, and he wasn't going to allow it to happen again. He came and got me, and he took me home. He moved me in with him, gave me his bed and slept on the couch. After a couple of months, he helped me get my own place.

And that's the happy ending, right? All the trauma was over, I was safe, that's where the story should end. Right? I bet you're not naive enough to believe that, but I sure as hell was. I thought I would recover and that everything would be ok. I thought that with safety, there would come the chance to heal. I thought my wounds would scab over, and I would have my scars but at least I would be able to move without bleeding out. But that's not how trauma works. I had two decades worth of trauma, abuse, and hell.

I just... faded. I didn't crack, I didn't crumble, I didn't break, I just stopped. For five years I sat in one room of my home, drowning inside myself. Last year I got handed a lifeline, and now I live somewhere better. I'm not really allowed to live independently so I actually live in kind of retirement village of all places. I have my own house, but it's got intercoms and emergency cords everywhere, I get checked on daily by on on-site worker. And I'm trying to get better, I really am. It's just not that easy.

There's more to the whole story that I maybe should have put in, like the fact that my mother was a drug addict when she was pregnant with me, and that may have been the reason some of my organs didn't properly form and/or formed wrong. My lung split in half when I was a baby, and parts of my stomach are missing. Or that my mother is full on batshit insane. I could have had a perfect childhood and I still would have been mentally ill. Hell, I was seeing psychologists at five years old. Take my sketchy genetics, add twenty years of severe traumas, and well... I'm a little fucked up. Because a lot of medical conditions use acronyms, my full list of diagnosis looks like I'm collecting the fucking alphabet.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Agoraphobia. I also have a Pulmonary Sequestration, Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, the stomach and lung issues. Immune Hemolytic Anemia, I'm basically allergic to my own blood. Plus, ya know, my liver recently decided to just fucking nope out, the pissy lil bitch is failing. I also may or may not have cancer, I don't know because I pussied out of the tests. At this point I am a walking, decaying corpse that is held together by glitter glue and bitterness.

So... why exactly am I writing this? And why am I even considering posting this? I mean, my problems aren't as bad as some other people's. We've all got shit to deal with, especially in 2020. The whole world is falling apart, so what right do I have to sit here pouting and pouring my problems out? Well, for a start, I guess this is my blog, I can post whatever, and it's up to everyone else if they read it.

So here it is, you have the backstory, so here's what it's all been leading up to.

I'm struggling. Like, really struggling. I'm stuck on this cliff, and I want off, any way I can. Whether I fall or fly, I just want free. I can't live like this anymore, because I can't breathe.

The fucking agonizing duality of being socially anxious and too easily overstimulated, and yet feeling fucking empty inside if you're not surrounded by action and noise. The world is too noisy for my brain, but my brain is too noisy for the world. I get antsy if I'm not doing at least a thousand different tasks, but I get overwhelmed if I try to do anything at all. It leads to short bursts of mania, followed by weeks of depression. But underneath all of that, under all the dramatic showboating, and the dark humor, under all the bravado... I'm really just sad.

Years ago, when I first came up with the moniker "The Sad Hatter", I said it was because I may be mad, but my madness was born of sadness. I'm just sad. I carry it with me where my heart should be. So I named myself Sad, and I put on the hat, and I wore my sadness like armor, turned it into an act, and made a spectacle of it. "I'm The Sad Hatter, and I'm mentally ill but that's alright, I'm going to be just fine!" I told you all I had my issues, and I'll come close to opening up about how bad those issues are, I'll give little chunks of information at intermittent intervals, and then two hours later I'll act like it never happened. I'll admit I was close to killing myself, and then two days later I'll post dog photo's and act like I'm all better.

I'm writing this because I'm sad. And tomorrow, I'll act like I'm not. But when I waver again, I'll come back here and I'll open up again. And along the way, maybe you're reading this and realizing you aren't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you're realizing you're not the only one who isn't healing neatly and in a timely manner. Maybe you're reading this and gaining some insight into the struggles someone you care about is facing. Maybe my opening up is can help somebody else, I really hope so, but I know it's helping one person. It's helping me.

This blog, it's about living with myself. It's about living with The Sad Hatter.

#trigger warnings #mental health #anxiety #borderline personality disorder #adhd #domestic abuse #child abuse #self harm #violence #just all the trigger warnings

44 notes · View notes

the-black-dragons-den · 3 years

Text

living with depression and borderline personality disorder, a very personal rant

please consider

with the boom of awareness of mental health issues, people are much more familiar with the symptoms of depression, and are much more inclined than they used to be to be compassionate and understanding when it comes to these symptoms. more and more people are understanding the importance of taking “mental health” days, understanding that depression can make it hard to get out of bed and take care of yourself, understanding that sometimes provisions need to be made for people who suffer with depression. depression is fairly commonly understood, and fairly easy to explain, and fairly appropriate to mention in casual conversation. the stigma is lessening! that’s not to say that everyone everywhere is doing a good job accepting and talking about mental health issues, and I’m not saying that this makes everything easier all the time for people with depression. Depression can be debilitating and fatal. But I’m saying that we’re moving towards compassion when it comes to this particular mental health issue.

Now, please consider...

You have depression which creates all of aforementioned struggle and turmoil. Additionally you have Borderline Personality Disorder, which most people haven’t heard of, many people confuse with Bipolar Disorder, and which psychologists may take years or prefer not to diagnose at all because there’s not really an effective targeted pill you can take to “fix” the problem. Being Borderline means when you feel your emotions, you feel them strongly, instantly, right at the surface. Yes, you feel joy incredibly strongly, but you feel anger and sadness to the same degree. When someone is rude in the store, you’re enraged and it ruins your whole day because you can’t stop thinking about it. When someone cancels plans, you’re devastated and start spiraling about why they must not like you. When someone you care for is hurt, your terror is unparalleled and you can’t stop panicking even when the person is fine again. When you’re hurt, or in a rut, or struggling, it feels like it’s never going to end or get better, and the dark thoughts are right there to tell you why it would be better if you just took yourself out of the equation altogether. Tears and yelling are your body’s preferred method of communication. As a child, you are told to stop “throwing tantrums” and “being a drama queen”. As a teen, you are accused of being manipulative because of your rapidly changing emotions. People think you’re using your tears and anger to get what you want. The reality is, what you want is to not have all your emotions on display to everyone around you at all times. The reality is, you don’t know HOW to quell the violent storm of emotions that bubble just below the surface at all times. The reality is, you KNOW you’re overreacting – maybe in the moment, or maybe later you realize, but you KNOW and you will always feel like the guilty party after a confrontation. As an adult, looking for help on how to be a better and more tolerable romantic partner, you will find hundreds of resources for your partner: “How to Leave Your Abusive Borderline Partner”. There is help out there – but not for you, it’s for the people that have to deal with you. There are conferences, huge talks, events where families can go to learn how to “deal” with their Borderline relative. Maybe your family tells you, years later, that they all flew out of state to go to one of these events when you were estranged from them. You know you’re hard to deal with, you know your emotions make people uncomfortable, you know that people have to work hard to not set you off. You know being in a relationship with you is a commitment, a job, and it’s hard. “I’m sorry” is your mantra as you start to feel like your emotions are the thing that are causing all the problems.

Compound this with severe depression. Compound it with severe, treatment-resistant depression. Imagine you’ve been on every imaginable class of antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, and anti-psychotics (despite how that particular type of medication made you think of yourself). Imagine you’ve had electromagnets pulsed against your head and tranquilizer shot into your veins, and yet all of these things have only provided a tiny fraction of the relief or help that they were intended to. Imagine knowing you’ve been running up medicals bills with no answers, no help, no success. Imagine knowing there’s no magic bullet, no pill to take to calm the waves, no way to make sure you don’t lash out at the people who care about you because of the constant, immeasurable flood of feeling that you feel all the time, constantly. Imagine knowing how much pain, and hurt, and struggle you cause of the people you love just because you can’t keep your emotions under control. Imagine feeling like that bad guy 99% of the time, even though you’re doing your best.

And people just… don’t know. They don’t know you’ve got all this going on in your head and even if you said that words Borderline Personality Disorder, they wouldn’t understand it. Imagine trying to explain a lifetime of outbursts. Imagine trying to defend yourself when people just see you as immature, emotional, “a woman”. Imagine working tirelessly on yourself, blaming every fight on yourself because you feel like you overreacted, feeling like it is only up to you to fix the “problems” that are your over-present feelings. Imagine trying to walk through life and keep all of that inside. So that you can be normal. Or socially acceptable. Or wanted.

There’s not really a point to this other than that I needed to vent. This has been in my head for weeks. This is my life. This is my fucking life. That’s not to say everything is terrible – I’ve fought hard to get where I am. I told a doctor at 13 years old that I thought I had BPD, and he LAUGHED at me. I waited more than 10 years to get the diagnosis. My therapist was nervous that he’d offend me when he told me, but I cried with relief. I still want to sob when I think of that moment. Finding out that I had BPD helped me realize that I wasn’t a terrible, horrible, manipulative person who was taking advantage of and hurting the ones I loved on purpose. Finding out that I had BPD helped me realize that everything wasn’t all my fault. Finding out that I had BPD helped save my life, because until then, I truly thought I was a horrible person that did not deserve to live. I have survived two suicide attempts, I’ve got over a decade of self-harming behaviors under my belt and have been clean for years. I’m doing okay right now. My partner is amazing and compassionate and understanding and kind, he’s the reason I’ve been able to work on reactivity and communication. We’re financially stable (for the moment), we’re housed and fed, and generally life if on the upswing right now. But I just…. Really wanted to explain. That depression is a horrible illness to deal with on its own. But when you add BPD, it makes like into this… unimaginable battleground every day. And people have vastly grown out of blaming depression on the people who suffer from it. But if you have BPD, you’re seen as a temperamental, emotional, tantrum-prone child, unless you keep that shit on lock constantly. You’re accused of being manipulative, dramatic, and overreacting constantly.

I honestly wanted to put this on Facebook for the people who know me IRL to read. But it’s long and I’m… scared. To complain there or to be too real there. There’s no button, nothing clever to wrap it up. I just. Wanted to explain. Even if it’s to the void. That I am doing my best, always doing my fucking best, and sometimes my best isn’t that great. I know that. I’m still trying though.

#depression #borderline personality disorder #BPD #medication #mental health #mental illness #wellness #personal #venting #gross idk might delete later #fuck i have regrets

3 notes · View notes

oversensitiveandoffputting · 5 years

Text

Okay, so,

I’m really worried that by publishing this I’m doing something irresponsible because there’s a lot of people in general who need serious mental health help and I don’t want people to become cynical or anything buuuuuuuuuut I’m just so frustrated because it’s like, near impossible to find a therapist that’s respectful of me. Almost all therapists are white, straight/cis, have some kind of conventional religious belief, and if they got something diagnosable, they sure as shit won’t let you know.

So my therapy journey began when my parents divorced and it was court-mandated. I went to, like, six different therapists with my sister and didn’t say a fucking word because I was intimidated into not getting treatment by my parents. It was messed up. Ironically, my mother’s a psychologist and I was raised in an environment that praised mental health treatment. don’t know. You don’t want to know my childhood. We’d be here for weeks.

And most therapists WANT to do well. They didn’t spend all that time and money for no reason. And they met me and made me feel welcome and we talked and I knew they were trying their best, they really were, but there was always that THING that kept me from getting what I needed. WANTing to do well and DOING well are two different things.

I’m AFAB. Despite most therapists being women, they don’t seem to know women very well. (Or, those of us who let them think of us as women until we finally correct them.)

And I guess I’m always the second queer person they meet? I say second because they need that first person to compare me to and decide I measure up short. I’ve had therapists tell me to stay in the closet because my life would be better. I have a same-sex fiancé. I’m not fucking shitting you. In 2019 I was told to stay in the closet. I should have known after she told me about all the gay friends she had she was a raging homophobe.

So after I’m done rolling my eyes and being way too patient about paying someone to ask very rude questions about my sexual awakening and how I found myself being genderqueer and how much of an ally they are before they reveal to me they haven’t done any research into queer theory into anything past 1980, then we get to the neurodiversity issues.

I can forgive people being insensitive about me being queer. It’s annoying but I’ve dealt with it enough that I can leave, laugh about it with people, and let it go as ignorance does not equal malice. But then I never meet the criteria to get the help I SPECIFICALLY ASK FOR because I’m not a difficult enough patient. I’m nice, I tell them everything they want to know without hesitating, minimal tears, and so I can’t be autistic. I can’t be ADHD. I can’t have BPD. I can’t have PTSD. We don’t focus on labels here. We just focus on trauma. And it’s even worse when they find out I’m a psych student, since then they tell me I’m a hypochondriac and to knock it off.

And I’m practically SCREAMING “I’ve done this. I’ve done this over and over. I don’t need an eighth retread over how my mother’s abuse left me with major abandonment issues. I know this. Just please help me not burn every bridge I have (BPD). Or how I can feel safer in the workplace while being ADHD/autistic since discrimination is very real. Or how I can stop focusing so much on my trauma and using it to define me as a person (PTSD). But I never get that. We never get there. They just keep talking over me because I’m traumatized and I’m like “Thank you. Can we move on now?” “No. Tell me more about how your dad was blaming you for acting out while your mother was driving you up the wall with behavior so fucked up people have cried after you told them?”

The fact I’m not a difficult enough patient to demand to be treated better is probably a trauma response to years of feeling unsafe and unheard, which you’d think they’d figure out. Being a therapist.

And I’m so frustrated because when someone is saddled with all kinds of trauma and problems and exhaustion from these issues should not have to go through all this effort to find out who is in their network for their individual problems, go to several appointments they either are paying for out-of-pocket or are being charged to their insurance and, if they have really good insurance, will be free, only to find out women can’t have autism because they don’t meet the checklist in the DSM for white male children (I’m being facetious, of course women can be autistic), they’re not queer enough, and holy shit I’m white so I can’t even imagine what POC must go through with some of these idiots.

And now I’m worried because I’m trying. I have EIGHT diagnoses and I’m trying and trying and trying and I can afford to leave therapists that make me uncomfortable and find a new one and I’m a psych student and raised in an environment where I understand the jargon so it’s a lot harder to pull the wool over my eyes and I’m fueled by literal spite towards everything and everyone, especially myself, so I will drag my exhausted, emotional ass to whatever therapist I found this week that I think won’t emotionally slap me in the face to keep trying to not let this get the better of me and FUCK I’m still not satisfied.

So...why are we telling everyone who has mental health issues to go seek therapy when it might just make the problem worse because god forbid they say “I’m gay” and the therapist says, “That’s nice, but maybe you shouldn’t tell people that because it’s such personal information” and they don’t immediately see right through it, fire her, and find someone else?

I don’t have a solution. If you have a therapist that works for you, I’m so, so happy. If you’re still looking, Same. And don’t feel bad, I guess. I’d even go as far as to try unconventional methods. Getting on medication and getting a dog have done WONDERS for my mental health. Go into a session GRILLING them about their competency with your issues and if you’re not comfortable, never go back. But JESUS therapists have to get continuing education to keep their license for a reason. Can a couple of those classes be “How to not spit in the face of your queer clients?” And “neurodiversity- not a plague and not just for boys.’ Please??? As well as I’m sure a shit ton of other cultural competency classes I’m positive are needed? Please? This is ridiculous. This is fucking ridiculous. This could be a Family Guy episode if so many lives weren’t at stake.

2 notes · View notes

wavemaker9 · 5 years

Text

wanted to address details of depressed diego, there’s a main focus on suicidal thoughts + like a very brief mention of self harm so careful as needed

The more i think about it, though, the more i just feel like the only reason diego’s even still around is taking rosa in? Like i think i already touched on her being the reason he cleans his life up even slightly from where he was when younger, but it can’t just be that. he’s a depressed guy with little energy, not much going on in his life, and no real motivation to get it to any place that’s sustainable long term. When he was in his late teens/early 20s he knew he had a whole life still to go and a lot of expectations placed on him to do something with it and no want to do that. Like my depression first started in late high school when I was expected to start looking for colleges to go to and it built back up after i graduated college and had to start looking for a job because i was so worried of having to go into a stressful retail job or something that i knew i wouldn’t be able to handle. This kid’s more lazy and worse at socializing than even I am and he’s doing those stressful retail/food jobs like pizza delivery literally just because money is needed to live. and like. I don’t think he was ever actively planning on doing anything, but he definitely had at least a few of those ‘hmm i could just step out into the street right now and not have to worry about this shit anymore’ moments.

suicidal humor probably was (and likely still is) a big crutch to him to a point. “You know what would be better than [minor effort]? Death.” is probably a joke he mentally has/does make a /lot/, and might even slip out to friends he trusted not to get all weird about it. ‘(Diego tapping the side of his head) Don’t have to go to work to make money to live if you’re dead.’ One of the occasional jokes he’ll fall back on when asked why he sleeps so much is def ‘It’s the closest I can get to death’ if he thinks it won’t cause a big thing. I don’t think he’s to the level of Kyle in a day to day basis of almost inviting death, the real diego would probably pass up several opportunities to die. Diego doesn’t have the energy to live the reckless lifestyle Kyle does and I also don’t think he’s one for just general self harm like Kyle often can be. Might be related to the blood issues, either the cause of them or them being the cause of this, but even if not related, that’s a concrete thing I think, diego having no interest in self harm actions. The reverse of Kyle, he wants to keep his pain only sexual, please.

But I also do think that, also unlike kyle, if /actually/ faced with death, he wouldn’t suddenly realize he’s not as cool with it as he thought he was. If anything, maybe realizes he’s way more okay with it than he expected? Assumed it would be a ‘but if really faced with it I wouldn’t be as chill about it’ scenario but has since come to terms with ‘okay but maybe i would?’. But then he had to take Rosa in and that gave him a more concrete reason to have to do these things, to have to stay alive, because Rosa needed someone to help look out for her. I think that also factoring into why she still lives with him. Not just afraid to move out because Extra Responsibility + Diego might slump back down into terrible living conditions, but also like. If that’s how he felt at a young age with his whole life ahead of him, imagine how he’d feel now getting older. But on the other hand, I think even with her living with him, he’s starting to see she’s still maturing into a more capable adult. It’s slow, but he’s starting to believe she could manage without him again. Again, he’s not actively considering taking any drastic actions, but i think he has a lower resistant to them as time goes on when the thoughts do come to him, + his self-preservation is also relatively low, just thankfully without the extreme recklessness kyle adds onto it for himself. Also, want to clarify Rosa’s not specifically living a dependent life for him to help make him feel like he needs to stay alive for her, it really is just in her nature to be like that, but it has this added bonus of helping him out which also kind of does the opposite of encourage her to fix her own flaws.

I’ll also say, like. I don’t think having people around he’s close to, even with Rosa to a point, makes those feelings specifically /lessen/ in favorability. Like there’s less of a want to because need to be around to help Rosa, but death /does/ always seem easier to him than not. Kyle, in contrast, largely thanks to his BPD, always tends to do a bit better on average when having a good support network and people he can recognize even a little care about him, and he’s way less likely to deal with any suicidal thoughts/quite such risky behavior/etc when he feels like he has more friends/family/etc because then he’d be losing them and they’re everything that means anything to him so doesn’t wanna do that.

That doesn’t mean much for Diego, though. Having friends like Will, Marion, and Sergey around don’t make that feeling any less because A, he’s very detached from his feelings anyway so even if he likes having them around, their emotional impact on him still feels low. B, he’s pretty sure each of them could easily manage without him so like that’s whatever. thinks might be doing them a favor if he wasn’t around because then they don’t have to deal with his shit. C, having them around doesn’t fix the issues in his life. It does for Kyle because while not all of his problem are relationship based, the biggest ones are and so if he knows he has a shit ton of love and approval that can fix a lot for him or at least make the mood dips more tolerable. For Diego, his main complaints in life are the efforts, not the relays. He’s fine at any point in his life where he doesn’t have a lot of friends or whatever. It’s the realization that he’s going to be working in some shitty job(s) he hates probably forever since there’s no way he’ll make enough to get a good retirement situation, until he fucking dies of old age just being even more tired than he normally is. Why not cut out the fucking middle man, yknow?

Also! As Kyle gets older, his mood swings tend to mellow out slightly and he has a bit of an easier time handling shit, but I think the depression for Diego only worsens as he gets older because again, the only way his problems get better as he gets older is literally just “I mean at this point I’ll probably only have to work 20 more years until my shitty health probably kills me instead of 40.” Like beyond just fucking marrying a sugar daddy or some shit so he never has to work again, there isn’t much that’s going to help him as he gets older and even like. Again, sorry to keep drawing back to Kyle but he’s the only other kid whose depression is that bad. If Kyle were talked into going to talk to a psychologist or something, eventually he’d feel more comfortable with it and take more of an active effort to go on his own and embrace the help more.

That’s fucking effort and work and time that probably eats up what little bit of free time Diego has outside of his job(s) and whatever, though, and you can pry that from his cold dead hands. He’d have to be made to go every single time, he’d be more resistant as the effort to fix his behavior got higher, and the moment he can get away with not going anymore, he starts skipping appointments fast. Listen, minus the suicidal factors, I’m just basing his depression/health awareness off mine and I need ya’ll know that 90% of the reason I don’t do things like go find a psychologist or take a more active role in fixing my poor health is that that would eat up my free time and I don’t wanna /do/ that. My free time is important to me and I’d rather just be unhealthy than lose some chill time, especially given the whole ‘depression makes the fun things you do less enjoyable’ factor. those are my shitty terrible priorities, and they’d also be diego’s. + I also know I’m resistant to any effort to change behavior I don’t already feel like changing because despite being a low-energy, emotionally detached disaster adult, I’ve also reached the highest point of self-confidence i’ve ever had in my life so i can recognize i have problems i could easily fix but i’m chill with where i am for once so it feels unnecessary anyway. Same for him, although less from high self-confidence and more from exceptionally low standards for himself.

Like, he’s not itching to change and his coping mechanism of just not having to deal with any of his mental health issues while he’s asleep is working well enough atm, don’t worry about it. he can sleep more if he’s not wasting that time going to see a therapist or whatever + doesn’t have to leave the house for that so like. Why not just sleep??? Diego ‘Why be healthy when you can nap?’ Andrés. Also like as if he had Go to a Therapist money anyway.

#ignore this #the lazy kid #amusing muse musings #depression talk the most amusing of musings

2 notes · View notes

epilepticcunt · 3 years

Text

Making an appointment with Dr. Bowers, the psychological and behavioral psychologist I used to see from the beginning of 7th grade to the end of 10th grade. She diagnosed me with BPD in front of my dad and Gwyn. Within the continuum of Ryan and I’s relationship I got kicked out of my mom and Mike’s house due to my loyalty and unwillingness to break up with him for them. I was sixteen at the time. I am now twenty four. My ex told me in a fit of anger how much of a cunt I was for perpetuating a BPD relationship cycle. Maybe he’s right. The least I can do is clean my side of the street for my future self.

Still doesn’t change the fact that he stole a shit load of my clothes, my butt plug he bought me for Christmas 2 years ago (like four times, we only used it together once when he first gave it to me but every time we broke up he would jack it from me...) My first bottle of lube we got as a couple is gone, lingerie missing, makeup missing, he got caught on Tinder 3 times, he ruined a friendship I have had for over a decade. I caught him with a girl a few years back a prior time that we had dated and he chose her over me -- and he went to talk shit to her when we broke up. He didn’t get a job in three years but watched me have mental breakdowns over worrying about not being able to pay the bills, not having sex with me for literally 3 months at a time, telling me he was a-sexual to get out of fucking me, pretending to not hear me cry myself to sleep because he didn’t want me for such a prolonged period of time, promising to communicate but ghosting me for a week, shattering my Nintendo Switch, refusing to touch my pussy unless I complained enough for him to finger me for five mins or less. I have literally dated this person for 13 years on and off and I can still count on one hand how many times he has eaten me out. He would make stupid promises to go to bed at the same time as me, or wake up the same time as I do. They would mean a lot to me in the beginning. I soon realized he was full of shit. Just like when he said he would meet me at my house on my lunch breaks from work. He would always fall through and flake out. I was pushed to my breaking point. YES I loved him, but at what cost? I was depressed as fuck, exhausted trying to explain he needed to grow up and get a fucking job and help me with the bills so I could chill for a second when I get off work. Instead, I would leave for work with him sleeping instead of being awake like he promised. get home from work to him sleeping on my lunch most days. If he wasn’t sleeping he was un-showered and playing video games. I’d leave to go back to work, come back home at five PM and he would be sleeping. Two of my grandparents have gone into Hospice and passed away in the last two years. He knew they were going downhill and knew they weren’t all too present in my life, so it did mean a lot to me. I wanted to be there for them and be there for anything I missed out on before. I visited my grandpa Dick and my grandma Phyllis frequently leading up to their deaths. HE MISSED BOTH OF THEM BECAUSE HE WAS PLAYING OVERWATCH. IGNORED MY MESSAGES FOR FIVE HOURS while I bagged my own grandma with the funeral home. I hate to rate my grandparents like this, but my grandpa really meant a lot to me due to the fact that he was not there a lot of my life. He would show up and give me $50 and feel like that made up for it. It didn’t, I just wanted to spend time with him. I finally got to spend that time with him at the end of his life. and he died. and Ryan fucking missed his death. of course. Because I don’t mean shit and I never meant shit. I specifically remember Valentine’s day 2019 I woke up and he refused to get up with me. Had to go to work so I got ready, left, came and home for lunch. He was sleeping so I said fuck it and didn’t wake him up. I cried on my lunch while he slept on the couch. Came home after work and he was still sleeping on the couch. I tried to wake him up a couple times. He slept all night. I cried.

So I was very angry for the majority of the relationship. I said a lot of things I regret saying. I felt as though he didn’t care either way. He wasn’t giving me any attention at all and even if I freaked out he still didn’t provide any attention after a while. Moral of the story - don’t point out anyone’s personality disorders if you are the one perpetuating them. OF COURSE I have abandonment issues that stem from my father. YOU KNEW THAT - you shouldn’t throw that shit in someone’s face if you were privileged enough to have your father present during your childhood. Fuck you for throwing that in my face. OF COURSE I have problems from that. My own mother told me he chose drugs over my sister and I. I thought my dad was Ken while I was growing up, not James because HE WAS NEVER FUCKING THERE! But you fed into my fear of abandonment anyway just to see what would happen. This. This is what would happen. Are you happy now? My mind can’t stop racing about every misdeed I’ve made in the last 24 years.

I know you think I am the worst person ever Ryan, but you ripped me into pieces. I don’t wish you any ill will either. I just hope you find someone “who can put up with your shit.”

I’m going to get help for my problem. What about you?

0 notes