When Mental Healthcare Doesn’t Help
Why the Reason I’m Seeking Medical Help is Meta
Before I met a guy I was briefly married to, I had no severe psychological problems; I never had a problem finding a doctor, I never had problems obtaining psychiatric care. I was never an “addict” or a “Drug seeker.” I had been prescribed the same three medications for over a decade, and I was a happy, outgoing, bubbly person.
Then, I met him. And things changed. I struggled with any kind of “work.” I was hospitalized five or six times before we divorced, barely knowing each other for over two years at that point. He had been addicted to many things before me, and during our marriage he got hooked on Kratom. I hated him for that. I hated Kratom for that.
His rental history was shattered before me, but I was always able to get an apartment so we moved, and moved often, but always into upscale and lavish apartments in the city. But my bank account was quickly being drained and I didn’t understand how I was spending so much money.
One day in 2016 it all came together. He had hacked into my Uber account and used it for quick rides during which he exchanged drugs for cash. He was writing checks from my accounts, some closed, in a maneuvor known as “check kiting.” Even with me, he had to use criminal tactics to stay afloat. That was the beginning of the end of the marriage.
When he couldn’t find a place to live for the next few years, he ended up sleeping on my new couch; and during this days I tried Kratom for the first time, a step in his constant abuse…abuse that included my computer hacked by him for years so he knew that I’d let him move in as a result of a breakup and financial strain. When I had a panic attack one night after he “moved in”, he essentially forced me to use kratom to try and feel better.
It worked.
At that time, I didn’t like my psychiatrist much. He was very matter-of-fact and would not take the time to discuss other possible issues other than the bipolar diganosis from 15 years prior, except perhaps “borderline personality disorder, when you’re around your ex”. I went back on forth on seeing him and getting medications from a primary care provider. He said if I stopped seeing him again, he wouldn’t provide care.
That was okay, at that point, because I had other doctors, but it was then I also began relying on Medicaid, so if any psychiatrist contracted with insurance companies, I had to lie to see them. I went back to a psychiatrist from my early 20s, who then told me to “get the fuck out of my office before I call the police” because my medicaid insurance plan sent him a note that I’d received my Klonopin from 4 providers during the past year. He didn’t seem to read the letter; I wasn’t seeing 4 providers at the same time. These are doctors who wouldn’t see me again, because no psychiatrist seems to condone writing prescriptions for benzos.
These are doctors who now call me an “addict” for being on medication to help with my use of Kratom. Or “abuse” of it as some say. When I state I don’t need the medication, I’m told I do, because I’m an “addict.” And Kratom is why.
I never had a problem with doctors until this trend was documented. I have more epic meltdowns than ever as I don’t react well to suboxone. So I seek help. And scramble for medications I’ve been on for over 10 years.
I scramble, about once a week, to get medications filled. On this day, Christmas in 2019, I’m worried I won’t have medication for my fibromyalgia. When I go the ER because my medications aren’t helping me, they ask “if you aren’t suicidal, why are you here?”… while reminding me I’m an addict, of course.
Can I not be both incredibly depressed but hopeful about my future? Why is getting help for addiction such a horrible preocess?
Doctors are rude to me, dismissive, arrogant. They think I’m delusional for citing the work I’ve done, the publications where I’ve been published. The social workers laugh and say I’m not competent and able to make decisions for myself. They think its dangerous that I live alone.
The last time I lived with others, I was sexually assaulted, waking up to strange bruises in my inner thighs and the pattern of fingertips on my hips.
The last time I told the truth about how I’ve been cyberassaulted I was laughed at, and asked by doctors, a week later, “Are you still worried about the CIA following you?”
And if it’s not that, it’s my weight. When I go into a walkin clinic for a sinus infection, I’m told to drink more water and to “get your diet under control.” Cue eating disorder.
I don’t want to go see a doctor, ever. It’s not fun for me. I enjoy therapy, but the cost of it is on par with a good life coach who is available every day, with a call once a week. All of this, which makes me wonder: why do I have medical insurance?
And I think back farther, to how this started. How did I let one person impact my mental health so extensively?
The medical system doesn’t like to deal with psychiatric issues, even if you are a psychiatrist. I can’t afford the kind of therapy or inpatient help I need, such as a $60k treatment facility in San Diego. I can’t even really afford therapy here. I’m not even sure I can afford to pay my rent next month. But yet, doctors won’t help and make me feel like shit for asking.
“It’s the holidays, if you’re feeling sad, or need to talk to someone, it’s ok to ask for help” tweets half the internet, a love note of pity to those who hate the holidays and feel triggered by Hallmark Channel-like cheer. But when I ask for help, I’m told I won’t and can’t get help because…I’ve asked for help before.
So I delete Facebook, I avoid Twitter, I write 20–30 pages in my journal every night. I swim in my sadness, wondering if at some point I’ll just drown when I get too tired to tread water. No one will throw my a life ring, because I’ve asked for one before.
But, I’m hopeful. Not desperate. And I’ll keep swimming, just keep swimming, until I find someone that can give me a floaty to sit in, while drinking an iced coffee in a pool not full of sadness, but one reflecting a brighter light. Sunlight. A light where he’s not here to make me tread water again.
For now, I spend all the holidays, all the days off, all the Sundays and nights after 5pm in fear; fear I can’t get medications, fear of what I do in a sudden rage. Fear of not making it. And a fear of doctors so strong I wean myself off medications, so as not to see them as often — or hopefully ever. Because asking for help makes me forget about hope, about treading water. Because it causes harm.
That is the crux of the problem in our society; doctors cause more harm then help, especially in the context of domestic violence, and so we have a plethora of crises. If doctors would stop trying to bill for an office visit every 5 minutes, maybe the problem would solve itself.
So while I think I’m crazy, I wonder why we think that’s such a crazy idea. Strange — doctors who truly care about their patients? What would happen if we took money out of medicine? What if we started acknowledging the concept of toxic masculinity in the context of domestic violence?
Maybe then we’ll stop victim-blaming patients; for our failure to use ONE doctor (who won’t prescribe medicine); for our failure to avoid a violent relationship; for our collective failure to treat others the way we need.
Maybe then we’ll start to see the reason people constantly seek medical care…is because they’ve had to constantly seek medical care.
The problem is laughably meta; but it doesn’t stop me from treading water, waiting for that one life ring so I can finally breathe.
