There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
There is an importance to healing I cannot stress enough. Because I was so affected by traumatic abuse so early in childhood, my life, identity, and behavior have all largely been shaped by pain. Truthfully, I challenge the notion that even human beings from seemingly tamer backgrounds are not shaped largely in part by pain. When going over these sentences, I thought a more accurate description might be to add pronouns to these sentences — add perhaps “my” and “their” before “pain,” but that would only distance myself from the ultimate point. There are many layers to this post as there are many layers to every person. Layers vary and appear different. They can manifest differently, speak in different tongues, dress in different threads, dance with different motions, and while sentient beings all hurt in different ways to different severities and we express those agonies in different behaviors, perhaps the greatest irony of all is that the most universal element sentient beings share is what often isolates us most — pain.
Physical pain or severe physical discomfort, at their most banal, tell us something is “wrong.” A bone is broken, and it needs to heal, or a part of our body is exposed that should not be exposed — in the case of extreme cold or extreme heat or a wound — or that not enough blood is getting to our heart or that not enough oxygen is getting to our brain. Prolonged inactivity can also cause physical pain or severe physical discomfort because that in itself tells the body something is wrong and can make things go wrong further within the body. People struggling with their mental health often get caught in this cycle, because already we’re usually struggling with debilitating stressors (and chemistry).
It is important to note that there are medical conditions in which people have a total insensitivity to pain, however rare, but even in cases of extreme dissociation or Antisocial Personality Disorder (sociopathy and psychopathy) where emotional range can become limited, there is a current that makes us universally one, even if separating us in terms of our behavior or reactions to it: pain felt by the soul even if not always the body.
I have always lived life feeling outcasted. In fact, it was such a problem that my mother specifically bought a book for me entitled Leo the Lop, in which a lop rabbit whose siblings have upright ears, sets out on a quest to define what “normal” really is. Throughout the course of the book, the charming illustrations depict Leo’s journey of self-discovery which ultimately ends with the absolutely dissatisfying conclusion that “normal is whatever you are.”
I liked rabbits, I understood Leo’s wishes, and I was five, so I enjoyed the book, but upon closing it and going into kindergarten the next day, I was viciously reminded that regardless of what Leo thought normal was, my classmates did not share the same conclusion.
I have never been normal, no matter what I have been.
I recognized at that time as I still do that the whole argument for “normalcy” is supposedly subjective, and that was the point of the book. There is no straight, wholly accurate definition for what “normal” really is, and as Morticia Addams so eloquently puts it, “What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”
So, there being no true definition for “normal” in terms of human behavior and character what must “abnormal” mean in psychology, which is, by very definition, the study of human behavior and character? because it does exist. It does exist, and I do find it funny, considering that according to NAMI, 1 in 5 American adults experiences mental illness during a given year. And let’s not play dumb. We know that’s what psychology means by “abnormal.” Forget that by mere observation, anyone aware enough can tell you healthy lifestyles — both physically and emotionally — are difficult to achieve and maintain even with the right circumstances, let alone being in positions in which you greatly lack resources or a support system. Forget that by mere observation, it is pretty obvious human beings are prone to unhappiness, dissatisfaction, and deteriorating health if not regularly maintained, regardless of whether or not they meet the criteria for a diagnosable illness. However, ask many professionals in the psychiatric industry, and they surreptitiously will tell you two conflicting things. First, out of their mouths will come, 1.) “There is no such thing as ‘normal,'” and then, throughout the course of treatment, you will start hearing the real message, which is, 2.) “But you are part of an abnormal statistic.”
“Diagnosing” the DSM
If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’ll probably know already that I am highly critical of psychiatry. I support psychiatry to an extent and am a strong believer that many people cannot get by without it. However, I am an extremely strong advocate for patient advocacy, therapies, and self-assessment and awareness. It is not a secret or at least should not be a secret that doctors are able to accept “legal” bribes from pharmaceutical companies. This is a way of developing and testing drugs, but let’s also be clear that it is another way doctors make more money, and it is extremely controversial for what I feel are extremely obvious reasons.
It is not entirely the doctors, though. I feel many times, especially in psychiatry, prospective or even well-established patients will come in and expect not only a prescription but also expect a prescription to solve their problems. That being said, they will also expect a diagnosis. Antidepressants are often called “happy pills,” which is not only grossly misleading but also toxic. While depression is sometimes organically chemical and is definitely affected by chemicals, I feel depression is more often situational or circumstantial, due to things that are entirely fixable with the right resources and support that do not involve drugs. Those fixable things include diet, activity, interpersonal skills, intrapersonal skills, stress management, etc. I feel drug intervention can be necessary to break the cycle of depression which I’ve said before is often a Catch-22 even in circumstantial depression, but I feel psychiatrists overmedicate needlessly without offering much authentic help.
Overmedicate. And overdiagnose. Which leads back to the question, what have I been?
Childhood on Drugs: A [Super]Brief Psychiatric
When asked by any new psychiatrist, “What meds have you been on in the past?” I always have to laugh. Not just snicker but throw my head back and give a hearty, long-lasting, “you’ve gotta be kidding me, I hate this question” type of laugh. I usually follow with, “Do you want me start from my infancy or skip to when I was prescribed Ritalin for ADHD?”
It was the 1990s in the United States, and ADHD was the illness du jour. I was often restless and excitable and had difficulty focusing. Also, I was an insomniac. These symptoms were mistaken for the whole criteria of ADHD after I was taken to a psychiatrist who met me for 15 minutes and decided “what” I was. I have learned since that this was how I responded to change, disorder, and attachment as a child. My restlessness was part of a much bigger problem, involving compounded trauma.
I was about seven at this time and was often in the nurse’s office complaining of real headaches, stomachaches, and other aches and pains, as such with many children who have undergone or undergo trauma. I would stay in the office for quite a while, not wanting to go to class because of pain and discomfort that I realize now were manifestations of serious emotional distress and medically real, too, in the sense that I was already suffering symptoms of endometriosis.
I had other symptoms and contributing factors, as well, that the psychiatrist did not bother to explore. I was hypersensitive and felt chronically lonely, unheard, and felt the responsibility of everyone else’s happiness on my shoulders. I had terrible nightmares and feared men — not monsters — being under my bed.
I felt filthy and disconnected from my body and often felt I was being watched and often stayed up nights at a time, thinking that if I awoke I would be in a UFO and being dissected on a table. I let people throw rocks at me until I bruised because I thought that’s what it took to have friends. I suffered from chronic pain, particularly joint paint, and of course, I felt absolutely like a freak: in the classroom, in my town, in my country, in my home, everywhere. In fact, I started believing I wasn’t even human. But I was put on Ritalin, Concerta, Strattera, Adderal, because according to the psychiatrist, I was a seven year old psychiatric patient who had ADHD. My last diagnosis apart from PTSD was Schizoaffective Disorder which is in all fairness, similar, I suppose, to Bipolar disorder, which is difficult to differentiate from ADHD in children. Funny thing is, Adderal, among many other stimulants, is known to exacerbate and even create psychosis.
**It turns out I am not alone with hallucinations or paranoid thinking in terms of PTSD only, and I do not match the necessary criteria for Schizoaffective Disorder. I suppose another “du jour diagnosis” by doctors who do not listen carefully. I have been off antipsychotics since October and have had minimal auditory hallucinations that ended completely by February.**
I have had to deal with other what I consider are “diagnoses du jour” that have only been combated through advocating for myself. I have had maybe the help of one or two professionals throughout my journey who have taken the time to try to understand me. For a lifelong history in treatment, that is grievously sad.
In the psychiatric profession, there may be no normal, but I suppose there is a way to be normally abnormal, and I am not it, either, even though they want me to be.
They’re not all wrong though, because I do think some people are.
It’s all about that Taste Bud Principle, even though it’s also not
While there are many people in mental illness advocacy, I constantly see two messages that are both extremely pervasive and probably extremely confusing to people who do not understand other people, regardless of whether those people are diagnosed with or have a mental illness, the same mental illness, or do not have any mental illness at all. Those two statements are: 1.) Do not pity us. We are the same as everybody else. 2.) Treat us more sensitively, because we struggle differently than you do.
It is late, and snow is falling. It is very light, and it won’t stick anyway, but neighbors have bought their emergency milk and bread regardless. It’s not like the north where we were buried in snowfall, and I still had to walk to school. I remember the real cold, the brisk and bitter wind, the icicles hanging from the sad-looking houses. I miss winter. I miss the fall there. But I do not miss that town.
I’ve written about many people in my life, and some I’ve written about many times. I’ve written lives over, dreams over, nightmares over. I’ve rewritten songs to beats I could not keep and have cried over a thousand one too many melodies. Too many lyrics. Too many words. Too many thoughts. Millions. Millennia, all swimming in me, as if this moment will never matter, but it still hurts.
There are shadows I grasp at. There are apparitions too heavy to hold. I am a bearer of many observations, and I see things other people have not, cannot, and will never see. I hear radio interference, hissing voices bullying the airwaves. I pick up on pain you never knew you had.
I am not liked nor loved by many people. Networking, making friends, even socializing at all, is very difficult for me to do. It has caused me grave upset and unrest, because for most of my life — if not all of it, because it is something I am just learning how to let go of — I have craved requited love and sacrifice from others. I am not a people person. I love people very much, although I do not like them. I by and large do not like interacting with them, because it is exhausting for me. I love to learn about them, share ideas, and I love moments of authentic communication, but it is seldom that I enjoy everyday interaction.
Especially in groups.
Fifteen years of therapy, eleven hospitalizations, in and out of partial programs, so many different services and different therapies (DBT, CBT, talk, etc.) Hell, I’ve even undergone ECT, (electroconvulsive therapy), and have had MRI, CT scans, EEGs, test after test, been on medication after medication, dose after dose, and I am sitting here on my couch, full of weeping lethargy but sleeplessness; a restless, nauseated anxiety and hunger for cessation and quiet. I feel so sad and so broken. Beyond tired, beyond depressed, beyond reparation. I know myself well. Years of [self-]interrogation, years of being poked and prodded by doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists, psychotherapists, counselors, and my own reflection have given me near crystalline photographs of my subconscious. I am betting I know myself more than most people know themselves. I am betting I understand myself more than most people understand themselves. And I am sure as hell that at this point, if I can be saved, only I can do it; and that, that is torture.