Tears During Stressful Times
The Last time I Cried
Life has been difficult lately. I’ve cried many times. About a month ago, I found out that my therapist of the last thirteen years thinks that everything I’ve been telling her about my life is either a lie or a delusion because of the diagnoses I was given before I started with her. All these years I’ve been spilling my guts and trusting her with my deepest secrets only to find out that because I was given diagnoses of Borderline Personality and Schizophrenia, she doesn’t trust anything I say. Neither of those diagnoses is accurate. I have Complex PTSD and Bipolar Disorder that has, at times, led to psychosis, but I’m not Borderline or Schizophrenic and was only given those diagnoses after I found out I’d been born intersex in my mid-twenties. It wasn’t until I learned of being intersex, transitioned from female to male, and began to get abused in the mental health system that I was diagnosed with Borderline and Schizophrenia when I tried to report the abuse. It was used as a way to discredit me. I told my therapist everything over the last thirteen years and I was always completely honest. The fact that she still thinks I’m a liar or delusional after all these years made me feel sick to my stomach. I felt so betrayed. I tried to talk it out with her, but she managed to call me a “she-he” at the end of our session. After that, I was like, “I’m done.” I don’t think she meant it as a slur, but she said it, regardless.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a new therapist yet and when I do, I’ll have to get to know another new person and will be scared that they’ll think I’m a liar too. If my diagnoses are more important to them than what I’m saying, then I can’t work with that.
I feel so crushed, but I didn’t cry over that. I just felt sick and fed up.
Then, last week I found out that my favorite social worker is leaving and it broke my heart. She’s been there for me through everything over the last four years, which has been a lot. I started showing my art in galleries and performing hip hop and spoken word right before my 40th birthday, four years ago. I’d just quit a hardcore nicotine habit and was pushing myself far outside my comfort zone, but not getting a lot in return. No one threw me a big 40th birthday party like I hoped I’d have after all I’ve been through. Between the disappointment of that, the stress I was under from pushing myself into the art and performance world, and the fact that I just quit my biggest coping mechanism, I fell into what was my third full-blown psychosis. My other two psychoses were in 2008 and 2010.
The social worker, who I just found out is leaving, came to my house once a week for seven months while I was stuck inside with my psychosis, trying to avoid the psych ward. She read my first book, which was about my other psychosis experiences and she encouraged me to publish it. I worked myself back to health by editing my book every day. I published it in 2020, right around the start of the pandemic. My social worker had to stop coming by my house during the pandemic, but she called and texted a couple of times a week and when the weather was nice we sat outside with masks. She came to my 42nd birthday bash on Zoom. I had that to make up for the lack of a 40th birthday party, and it was the best birthday ever with friends from all around the world. My social worker came to my art shows and watched me practice my music. She loved all of my art and always made me feel like I was special and deserving of good things. She made me feel like I made her job worth doing, and that always made me feel good too. I’m heartbroken that she’s leaving and I’m crying about it as I write.
The day after she told me that she was leaving, I was woken up early by the electrician ringing my bell and banging on my door. He was yelling at me because the door buzzer he just fixed was broken again. He was saying that it was my fault and that I’m being lazy and a pest. He said that I should just suck it up and deal with the fact that it’s broken because it’s never gonna get fixed unless the building owners redo the whole system, which he assures me they will not. I kept saying I’m disabled and can’t go up and down the stairs every time someone rings my bell, but he just kept yelling at me. My cat was in the bedroom screaming over and over the whole hour he was here and he still didn’t fix it. He put a hole in my wall, which he isn’t gonna fix, and when he left, I started screaming off the top of my lungs and smashed a can of cat food on the floor, then punched the table about twenty times. I friggin’ lost it.
I was disappointed in myself for losing my cool. I burst into tears again and couldn’t breathe through my nose, so I had a panic attack. It hasn’t been easy lately. Then, I found out that my sister, who lives with my parents, has COVID, and my mom has COPD, so I’m praying she doesn’t catch it. My 90-something-year-old grandmother figure just fell yesterday and had surgery today and I’m preparing myself for the fact that I may be getting even more bad news in the next couple of weeks, as I wait to hear if I got an artist grant. Hopefully, it will be good news, but when it rains it pours, and that’s how it’s been lately.
Luckily, I have many coping skills that include
writing,
drawing,
painting,
reading,
photography,
walking,
listening to music,
dancing,
taking baths,
talking to friends,
petting my cat,
taking naps,
medicine,
watching TV,
playing bass, keyboard & drums,
rapping,
singing,
and even crying helps me to get through my intense emotions.
Somehow, every day I keep surviving.
