In September I started to see the psychiatrist, as I had promised the family I would.  I couldn’t ignore the fact that my first appointment was on my nephew’s birthday.  Ironically, Agatha’s son had mental health issues and here I was visiting a psychiatrist. I felt more affinity with my nephew now.

Before I went to my appointment I developed a plan for our meeting.  I knew that the doctor would ask me about taking anti-psychotic medicine.  I couldn’t let my family find out that I hadn’t been taking the medicine, especially Wayne, because he would make a big deal about it and refuse to allow me back home. No one cared how I felt.  I didn’t need medication nor psychiatric help.  But there was no point in arguing about it.   My family was brainwashed into thinking that I had to have specialty care to be “normal” again, so I would play the game. I would visit the doctors, tell them I’m taking the medicine, and work to slowly disengage from all this.

I was going into these meetings with caution. From my stay at the Behavioral Unit, I knew you needed to be careful in what you shared with psychiatrists.  Say one thing that could be misconstrued or misinterpreted and you’d be in trouble. It was too easy for them to put labels on you and want to solve all your issues with more medication. That was the primary tool in their toolbox after all.  I knew from talking with the patient advocate in the hospital that people could talk themselves right back into a facility and have a much longer stay.

No surprise, the first appointment with the psychiatrist that Wayne originally took me to, was tense.  While I went alone, I’m sure he was thinking back to Wayne’s outburst at our prior appointment.  The doctor was guarded and a bit nervous as he looked around me. His first question was if Wayne would be joining us. When I said no, he seemed to relax.

The doctor’s office was rather sterile with nothing special chairs and diplomas on the wall.

If you’re looking for a psychiatrist, good luck finding one with a couch you can lay down on. It’s not like on TV, where you recline, feet on the couch, opining about your miserable life, in a darkened room with a doctor saying, “Hmmm”, while taking copious notes about your dysfunction.  The truth is rather bleak.

After pleasantries, the doctor launched into asking me about “the long weekend” and what I remembered about the events leading up to that.  I quickly recapped the misfortunate events at the Emergency Department, how they drugged me to relax me, and how I was transferred unconscious to another hospital and woke up in the Behavioral Unit.  He asked me that perennial question:  Are you taking the medicine? And my usual answer, “yes” with my fingers crossed, like a child does when they are fibbing.

I told the doctor that I wanted to work with him to wean me off the medication as it was prescribed based upon what my husband provided on the hospital intake forms, and not on observed behavior by the medical staff at the ED or the Behavioral unit. I told him that the medicine made me feel numb and that I wanted to be able to feel, emote and even cry. He said that we could do that over time.  He went on to say that once I was weaned off the medications then there was really no reason to see him, and no need for the sessions.

I asked him to explain that because I thought the idea was to get some kind of therapy to help me with my “mental issues”.

But he said, “The main treatment of psychiatry is to get the medications right. So if the goal is to wean you off the medication, which probably hasn’t even had time to integrate into your biochemistry, then we should ask ourselves if you even need to be here.”

I thought, “BINGO, some semblance of common sense!”

For our first session he asked if there was something I wanted to talk about.

I just said, “I want to discover what the fuck happened to me to get to this point.”

He just nodded and said, “Hmmmmmm.”

So, he goes back to asking me, “What do you think happened?”

I had to pause for a minute.  Not because I was thought-blocked as Wayne might think.  Rather I was thinking how stereo-type. Just like on TV, only no couch. Is Psychiatry really about having the patient solve their own issues? How hard is that medical degree?  I was skeptical at how helpful this “treatment” was going to be.  I started to mentally label him as Dr. “YouTellMe”.

The sessions with the doctor are scheduled for 30 minutes so time goes by very quickly.  Dr. “YouTellMe” ends our session with, “See you next week. Please book weekly appointments. I believe you’re eligible for 10 appointments with no co-pay and then another 20 or so at $5.00.”

In my mind, I’m thinking, here we go again, whatever insurance covers, use it.  Don’t let good insurance go to waste, regardless if you need the care or not. I believe the medical industry is a free-for-all where doctors are happy to maximize your insurance benefits in an effort to “treat” you, whether you need it or not.

I went to my second appointment with Dr. “YouTellMe” with resignation.  I had no need to be here, but I had to continue to play the game.  As expected, our 30 minutes was quick and really pointless.

The Dr. asked, “Are you taking the medication?”

“Yes”, I said.

He asked, “How do you feel? Have you experienced any side effects?”

I said, “I had no side effects other than I still don’t believe I need the medication and really want to start weaning off of them.”

He replied, “We will work the process over the next couple of weeks.  First you’ll be cutting the pills in half, then you’ll quarter them, then drop down to no medicine.”

I nodded and said, “OK!”

Well, that was less than 10 minutes of a conversation, including greetings and small talk.  We then sat there in silence.  He was looking at me expectantly.  I was just looking blankly back at him.  I guess he thought I could bare my soul. I thought he should lead the conversation. Neither of us really put forth an effort to talk.  He knew I was a short-timer, so maybe he didn’t feel professional responsibility to delve deeply into my psyche.  There seemed to be about 10 minutes of silence and finally Dr. “YouTellMe” asked if there was anything else I wanted to talk about. Really?! What was the point?

I politely said, “I don’t think so.”

He replied, “Then I’ll see you next week.”

Wow.  Is this really what the medical field of psychiatry is all about?  A medicine check point, that’s it?  Not even blood tests to monitor the efficacy of the medicine?  I really needed to get “weaned” quickly! And to think how much my insurance company is paying for this “service”.

I had been seeing the psychiatrist (Dr. “YouTellMe”) in order to “wean me off” the medications that I wasn’t taking, but I was getting tired of the charade.  I wanted to see if I could find someone to help me make sense of all my shit.

About this time my mom gave me a business card for a woman talk therapist.  The talk therapist had ties to my family.  Casper’s wife’s family had used the talk therapist for some issues relating to a divorce.  I assume they had good results and that’s why they passed her card through the family to my mom, for me.

Unfortunately, once Agatha, Scarlett and Wayne found out about her, the pressure started.  Agatha and Scarlett would push from both directions, using Mom, Dad and Wayne as levers to push me. Scarlett and Agatha were relentless in pushing me through them.  I overheard one phone call between my mom and Agatha.

Agatha asked, “Did she make an appointment yet?”

Mom said, “I don’t know.”

Agatha pushed harder. She said, “You know mom, she won’t go!”

Mom said, “I trust Nikita and have faith in her.” Her tone of voice told Agatha to drop it.

My mom was the family member who treated me like an adult. I’d like to think she trusted me to make my own choices, and respected my decisions.  She didn’t need to pressure me. Mothers have a way of letting their children know what they need to do, and when they are out of line.  It’s subtle, but effective.  By not telling me what to do, I knew it was time to make an appointment. Well that, and the fact that Dr. “YouTellMe” couldn’t help me without drugging me.

Going to the talk therapist, a psychologist, would mean that I could end the charade about medication as she wasn’t able to prescribe it.  I would let Wayne and my family know that I was continuing to work on my recovery through talk therapy, and they would see that I was earnest in healing myself.

I was skeptical about the value of talk therapy.  I wanted to ascertain if I could learn techniques to reposition the impacts the long weekend had on my life. Perhaps there were tools to help me fix my broken marriage and family.

In the back of my mind, I also considered the talk therapist to be a voice for my sanity.  As she learned about me and we talked, she would surely see how rational and normal I was. She could then prove to others that I was not psychotic or thought-blocked as Wayne seemed to think. She would have an unbiased view of my mental health.

I made the appointment with Dr. Marsh because it was another card I had to play to show Wayne that I was complying. Another check box I had to do as part of my parole. But I was a cautious patient. I chose my words and what I talked about carefully. I did not want to offer up any information. I had to find out what the therapist knew about me, so I did my usual routine of answer a question with a question. I did this to find out if someone in my family had told the therapist about my recent history, and who that might have been.

In the beginning, I was suspect of her, too. At my first appointment, I was alone in the waiting area. The previous client session ended, she and her client came out into the lobby, and they just stared at me. Didn’t say anything, just stared for what felt like 5 minutes. And then they turned to each other and started speaking in German. They would say something to each other, laugh, and then look at me. They say something else in German, laugh and look at me. That went on for another 5 minutes until he left. The incident made me feel exposed and singled out.

In our first sessions we talked about my stay in the Behavioral Unit and going back to work. She wanted to hear about how I ended up at Teddy Roosevelt. I was quiet, thinking about how much I wanted to share. Thinking that she didn’t need the details, I gave her a hesitant, carefully worded summary. I omitted the juicy details as I looked around the room, anywhere but at her.

It’s actually very difficult to talk about yourself. The intimate parts of your life anyway, in a soul-baring kind of manner. You feel exposed and naked. It’s hard to be fully honest, admit your faults, expose your mistakes, and allow someone to see your embarrassment and shame. And even though doctors aren’t supposed to judge, they are people, so how can they not? They have an opinion, for sure.

She asked questions about my family members. You know, how shrinks all think everything goes back to your childhood. But I wasn’t ready to tell her things. I didn’t trust her yet. Since my parents didn’t lock me in a closet, my siblings didn’t bully me, and I wasn’t anti-social as a child, I didn’t see the point of talking about my family. She had to move on to other avenues of conversation. Look for other areas to root out the source of my issues.

Dr. Marsh took my avoidance in stride and smoothly steered our conversation toward Wayne. She asked a lot of questions about Wayne’s behavior. Why did he feel the need to go to the hospital? I explained that it was all pretty frantic with my work stress, then Wayne running around the house and to my parents, and him getting pushy with all of us. Did he and my parents agree? I restated my now standard line, that he was doing what he thought was best. She asked how he got me to stay, since there was nothing wrong with me. I couldn’t look at her directly when I responded because I didn’t want to say I was tricked. This was my husband, I didn’t want him to look bad. I explained it was a mistake. I had an overreaction to the Ativan. That much was all true anyway.

I wondered why she was so intent on asking about Wayne, when this was really all about me. Her questions were interesting. Every time that I replied to a question, it sparked more questions. Without wanting to, I found myself providing clarifying details. And that just gave her more ammunition to dig through.

They weren’t the standard questions I got from the psychiatrist. Was Wayne acting himself? Why did I think he seemed angry? Why did I think he was so distant? Was he behaving out of character? This wasn’t just her wanting to know what happened, it was more like she was asking these questions to get me to start thinking. Almost like I needed to question Wayne’s reasons for his actions. Which of course was stupid. Wayne loved me.

Then we moved on to my work. We got stuck on my disability claim.

I explained to her, “I am really lost without working. My job is important to me. Unfortunately, I got put on disability, by mistake, and I can’t go back to work until I get HR to cancel my disability. The steps to do that take longer than I realized.”

Dr. Marsh replied, “How did you get put on disability? Why do you want to cancel the disability? This is time you could take to regroup and work on your personal life.”

“I am afraid that people at work would think this was fraud. I don’t want any legal issues if they find out that I’m fully capable of working. I was never disabled. So it’s just wrong.”

Dr. Marsh said, “The hospital would likely certify your time off, if you needed that.”

“Dr. Marsh, the “long weekend” was a situation that got out of hand and never should have happened. I don’t know how they were all able to lock me up, but I’m not disabled and never was. I was fine. So I’ll continue to tell HR that I was fine and get this undone.”

Having a talk therapist would become very helpful to me over time as she was an unbiased, analytical resource to validate some of my thoughts and challenge some of my beliefs. Our sessions were a way to cut through all the noise in my life and develop some clarity. It would take her some time to break through my reserve and caution. After the “long weekend” I was feeling raw, scared, and suspicious. My whole world was destroyed in just four days. It was hard to recover.

I was preparing dinner for Alex and Wayne, planning out the conversation I wanted to have with Wayne later that night.  Having been to both a psychiatrist and now psychologist, I was clearly working to improve my mental health, which should give Wayne comfort knowing that I was working hard to get life back to normal for us.  While I was still uncertain how much I would ever trust a psychologist with my personal life and true, inner-self, I did see some value in spending time with a professional to learn how to improve my thinking about certain aspects of my life.  I wasn’t convinced Dr. Marsh had tools that would help me, yet, but I was starting to like our interaction.

As I cleared up after dinner, I asked Wayne if we could have a private chat.

I started out in a hesitant tone of voice, conciliatory really, hoping we could have a calm conversation. I was nervous, knowing Wayne wouldn’t be happy.

“Wayne, I wanted to let you know that I’ve been seeing both the psychiatrist that you took me to, as well as a talk therapist.  I want you to know that I am still working hard to get my, our, life back on track and will continue to seek professional help. “

Wayne looked concerned as I started talking, and interrupted my speech in his firm tone. “Nikita, you know that it’s important that you continue to get help. This isn’t going away and there are serious consequences to your mental health if you quit treatment.”

“Wayne, I completely understand what you are saying. I am not suggesting that I quit working with a doctor, but I am choosing to continue to work with Dr. Marsh.  The psychiatrist didn’t see a need for me to continue with the medicine. He says I will be weaned off the meds in the next few weeks. Once I’m weaned off, there’s no reason to see him.” I said all this with my calm, logical, be reasonable voice.

“I don’t like this. The hospital said you should continue to take the medications and if you don’t, you could have permanent limitations. You need to do as they said.”

I started getting more determined.  My voice was firmer, my glance more direct.

“Wayne, I hear you. But, I also talked with the psychiatrist and now the psychologist and they are in agreement that I don’t need medication.  You know that I don’t feel myself with the medication. You know I hate any kind of prescription medication. This is the worst kind. This stuff changes your brain chemistry and I don’t want that. I will continue to seek talk therapy with Dr. Marsh.  I’m trying to get better, really I am. I am feeling better. I am fine.  But Dr. Marsh will be there to help me keep on track.”

“We agreed. We’d Do it My Way. Take the Medicine.” He was abrupt.

I really didn’t want to piss him off, but I was doing all I could to meet his conditions within the boundaries of what I was willing to do to my body. I replied back to him in a don’t-mess-with-me tone of voice.

“Wayne, I’m getting weaned off the meds. I’m done with them. Don’t bug me anymore about this.”

And I didn’t stick around long enough to hear his reply.  I left, shaking, on weak knees.  I had stood my ground.  I had pushed back.   I didn’t know how mad Wayne might be.  He might make more conditions on my returning home.  I just knew I couldn’t sit around and see him start his masterful manipulation move of somehow making me think everything was for my benefit, to be sure I was better, and I’d end up doing something I really didn’t want to do.

I walked back to my parents’ house thinking about how my life had changed so drastically in such a short time.  I was terrorized, drugged, kidnapped, imprisoned and my dignity taken in such a terrifically easy manner.  How could I lose so much control over my life in a mere weekend?  What would stop this from happening again?  If I didn’t toe the line, would I need to worry that something bad would happen?

As I walked, I noticed it was dark and the air was chilly.  I needed a jacket to ward off the chilly evening air.  I only had a thin sweater on.  I hugged my arms around my body in an effort to keep warm.  It was just a short walk.  I could feel my ribs beneath my sweater. All of them. Top to bottom. Front to back. I guess I still haven’t gained that weight back from the long weekend.  Or maybe I was still losing weight. The stress and fear I’d been under was almost palpable.  It is hard to relish a meal when you’re life is in the toilet.

I thought about my conversation with Wayne. This won’t be the end of it.  I knew that telling Wayne probably meant that my family would find out.  I wouldn’t have to relay the news myself.  I felt terribly alone with no one I could trust.

Photo by Tarik Haiga on Unsplash

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