Deep inside my gut somewhere, I am a really angry bitch. No kidding. I come off all nice with my founding of Grace in Small Things and knitting and occasionally photographing stuff and the whatnot, and I am generally a fairly decent human being, but I don't let my really angry bitch out to breathe very often, and that will curse me with the freaking cancer again if I'm not careful. Anger left to ruminate and rot in your gut can do that to a person, or so I've been told.
I'm really angry, because I sought help for my hurting mind and heart and could not find it, and when I could not find it, I was blamed for it. I am angry that I was put on a waiting list to see a psychiatrist at the beginning of August 2008 and could not get in to see one before the end of February 2009. I am angry that I went to see five different people over those nearly seven months only to receive a prescription for a drug that my history contraindicates and another three-month long wait before anyone will see me again. When I was unable to go back to work, one doctor told me to think of my husband, because he was probably growing tired of me. He really said that. Another doctor's receptionist told me that psychiatric outpatients were horribly unreliable and that it was our own fault if we didn't get to see doctors in a timely fashion. Yet another doctor told me that I was fine after I doubled-over in his office, hyperventilating and dripping tears on his carpet, after he suggested that this was all in my head. No shit, Sherlock. I am at fault for not seeking help earlier, for not having forms in on one office's schedule when the form-fillers wouldn't even see me in the other office, for supposedly being tiresome to my husband, for not trying hard enough, for being non-compliant, for seeking help when I wasn't showing obvious physical signs of illness such as tearing out my own hair or cutting. Fuck you.
I have incredible fear reactions to things as simple as meeting someone for coffee some days, any thought of my previous employer sends me into fevers and tears, and there are stretches of days in which I can barely get myself moving through exhaustion and body aches. After all this waiting, after all the crying and withdrawal and panic, I have been told that I have a mild depression and that I need to sleep more soundly, and here, take a drug that has strong warnings about causing both suicidal and homicidal tendencies, because screw the fact that my history with those symptoms does not make me a great guinea pig for drugs that are known to cause them.
I am beginning to feel better, though, despite my present lack of pharmaceutical intervention. The darkest end of winter is giving way to spring, and even if that spring so far has been wet and dun-coloured, I can see my own return. I am exercising a little bit each day, taking care to drink enough water, trying to eat better, taking my vitamins, and getting out of the house for walks when I can. I can even feel my creativity swelling. I wake up now with a list of things on my lips that I want to accomplish. Just weeks ago this was such a foreign concept that I wasn't sure I would ever feel alive again.
And strangely, it is all of this good going on that has allowed to me get angry about the last couple of years of my life, because I know that this good is temporary. All the good that happens between now and October is temporary. I struggle all year every year, but October to April nearly kill me, and I am not being hyperbolic. The darkest days of my life happen for months at a stretch every fall/winter/spring, and all I have to look forward to in terms of psychiatric help at the moment is an appointment with a psychiatrist in another two months who might just discontinue seeing me due my noncompliance with his treatment.
I want to be well, and I am taking actions to see that I get as close to it as I can, but I want to be permanently well, not on the verge of ill for months, then tipping into very ill for months, then wash, rinse, and repeat. I want someone to talk to me for more than half an hour before prescribing grossly inappropriate medication. I want someone to take into account my physical health and do bloodwork to back up their findings. I want someone to look at all of me. Hell, I just want someone to look at me, right at me. I've been looked at sideways, down upon, and as though I were invisible, but I have not been looked at directly. Aside from a wonderful therapist who I can no longer afford to see, I have received treatment that I can only describe as irresponsible, and it breaks my heart, because there are so many more like me, so many more who have it far worse than I do, and we find ourselves being prodded through a system in which we are often ignored, pushed aside, given inappropriate treatment based on the most cursory of diagnoses, and then blamed for being in positions in which we did not choose to be.
I am a really angry bitch, and, damn it, I deserve to be. And you know what? I think I'm going to let this bitch out, maybe take her for a run in the park, go bark at shit for no reason, because it feels really fucking good to be this mad. It really does.