The Collector

I have a new diagnosis (or two)! More to add to my collection! So far I’ve been told I have:

- Major depression

- “Double” depression (major + dysthymia)

- Alcoholism

- Borderline personality disorder

And now, drum roll please:

- Generalized anxiety disorder

- Obsessive compulsive disorder

Frankly, I think all these diagnoses are sort of all bullshit at this point. I know I’ve met the diagnostic criteria for all of them at one point or another and I currently meet the criteria for GAD and OCD, hence the new “diagnosis.” But honestly, these don’t mean anything to me anymore. Nor does the DSM mean much to me these days. I know what I have and I know how to fix it (brains + cash + support + time).

Yet when my doc sprung this on me yesterday, it was still a disappointment. Half: “well, of course” and half “oh no, not again.” He wanted to leap right into a discussion of treatment options and therapeutic interventions and I was like…. Stop. Let’s just process the fact that you’re saying this to me. Let’s just process what this MEANS and feels like. Let’s start with identifying what was the chicken here and what was the egg.

I dunno, somehow, it’s really important for me to understand what came first. If you had cancer, you’d want to know that it was the chemo that was causing your nausea, not the cancer or some other, horrible, underlying illness. And I kind of think that this might be what’s happening here: getting better is causing some things to get worse. It’s like trading one, horrible debilitating illness for four, smaller slightly less annoying ones. Watch:

Age 0-7:

I know I started with a genetic susceptibility towards emotional sensitivity. I own that. I’m sensitive in all the good and bad ways that word connotes. I’m also creative and intelligent – another asset/liability depending on what day it is. Growing up, my home environment preys on this. My parents’ inability to regulate their emotions spilled over and made me even more hyper-vigilant. Their invalidation & narcissism alters my perceptions of the world and necessitates coping mechanisms like dissociation and near-psychotic (albeit creative) interpretations of reality. (I cannot control trees, no matter how much I believe I can. (I think.))

- Diagnosis at 7: gifted

- Treatment: play Battleship with the school shrink

Age 8-14:

Now, add to this mix an actual, tangible reality that I had to LIVE in every day with things like school and peer pressure and adolescence and loss… and I get pretty worn out. It’s hard to be the crazy one. It gets old. I want to escape. I think about death. A lot. Remember, the rules don’t apply to meeeee!

- Diagnosis at 14: major depression

- Treatment: go directly to hospital. Do not pass go. But maybe stop in at your local liquor store.

Age 15-27:

Wow. That whole crazy/hospital thing really got everyone’s attention. Maybe a bit too much… but, WOW. I’m gonna tell everyone I meet about THAT. Maybe even make it my new “thing.” Oh, and alcohol works great!

- Diagnosis at 27: double depression & alcoholism & borderline

- Treatment: how much money have you got? Double it and mail directly to the nearest mental health provider. Also: cutting releases endorphins! Do that.

Age 28-36:

So. Maybe I went a bit overboard… That whole crazy thing tends to make nice things like husbands and jobs and car keys disappear. Maybe I should try getting - and then keeping - my shit together. But to do that, I’ll have to hold on tight. Really dig my nails in deep and keep everything under perfect lock and key. Measure it out to the nearest microgram. And worry. Don’t forget a heaping spoonful of worry. That’ll help the medicine go down.

- Diagnosis at 36: GAD & OCD

- Treatment: to be determined.

Groups

I’ve done a LOT of group therapy in my life. Of course there were the endless hours of groups that came with every inpatient and partial hospitalization. There were various outpatient DBT groups, various AA meetings and even one outpatient CBT group. But nothing – nothing held a candle to the group my friends and I created on our own.

We all met in a PHP program run by a local hospital. It was a pretty good program, as these things go. There was the usual drama. A girl that no one liked killed herself. The damned “movement therapy” people forced us into sing-a-longs (with tambourines) in the middle of a day that bruised our self-esteem. There were insurance battles. The DBT therapist had a newborn and was so sleep-deprived that she couldn’t run a group to save her life. One of the social workers looked like a hobbit. We tried not to look enviously at the other outpatient programs for medical issues that looked better funded and frankly, cleaner.

Eventually though, the program ran out for all of us (did I mention the insurance battles) and we tentatively agreed to try and keep meeting. Maybe every couple of weeks, we said? A potluck at one woman’s house? We did it and it went WELL. Then one night, at the last minute, we couldn’t get in touch with our host. She was busy trying to kill herself we later learned. When she got out of the coma we started meeting again but now on a weekly basis.

Every Friday in Alameda we sat for hours and hours and listened patiently to each other. There were 8 of us. I was actually the youngest at 31. Everyone else was somewhere between 40-60. But it didn’t matter. We all had some variety of depression. Others had some axis II stuff going on and maybe some substance abuse thrown in for fun. But we all had something in common: at one point, all of us had wanted to kill ourselves and we just wanted to keep each other ALIVE. It became a support group for people addicted to the idea that suicide was an answer.

I’m going to stage a reunion in May when we go back for a visit. It’ll have been almost 4 years since we were all together. I’ve missed them all so much.

All of them.

All of us are still alive.

All of us.