Ice Cubes? Really??

Saw my "new" therapist today. This was our second visit. I knew - during our initial phone conversation when we set up our first appointment - that she was not right for me. She became "concerned" when I told her I get afraid and overwhelmed when I meet new people/doctors/social workers/etc. and that I would take a clonazepam before I came.

So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?

Strike one.

When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.

I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).

My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.

Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!

Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.

Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.

!?!?!

Seriously?

Jesus.

I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."

Anyway that's just me ranting.

I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.

She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.

That's a tough one.

"Mental Illness"

New therapist. New office. New Building. Fortunately I knew the taxi driver - Jim. An upbeat, dark-skinned, compassionate man who tells the story of his wife's death and his new relationship and how they travel. He's very keen on her. I hope his life is happy. He could retire - he's well over retirement age - but enjoys the interactions with his fares, and - like many, I suppose, would go nuts if he didn't work.

Anyway Jim knows a little of my story. Not hard to tell, when you see the scars on my arms and, now, on my legs. Self-mutilation. I've graduated now to burning, as well. It's quick, easy and done. No hair-pulling since (because of my agoraphobia) my doctor put me on an earth-sized doseage of Vitamin D. My nails and hair are now growing normally. I am grateful for that.

Anyway So...the new therapist, Anne. Bad vibes. Not optimistic.I suppose the first turn-off is that she is part of one of those conglomerates which has always turned me off. However, in this case - because I've called and left tearful, sobbing  messages to not take Judy away - I believe they're going to let me stay with her. So tired of losing people and I have built a rapport with Judy. She gets me more than most do, and she helps.

Oh hell I'm too wrapped up in shit right now to finish this blog.

Point is I don't like or trust her, don't expect much.