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misdiagnosis
  • Nevertheless, She Persisted

    From time to time, I struggle with writer’s block. I think to myself that I have nothing to say and that I have nothing to say in which people want to hear. I often view it as normal and part of the process of a writer/blogger. In the advent of a rare snow day resulting in the closure of my office, I anticipated spending the day writing and drinking tea. The reality is I spend the day binge-watching Empire and asking my husband what I should write about. He suggested politics. I laughed.

    Until I didn’t. This week, a quote making the rounds in the news has sat with me as I rolled its words and meaning around my head.

    “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.” This was a statement Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said in defense of his cutting off Senator Elizabeth Warren from remarks during a confirmation hearing for the position of Attorney General. Women all over have adopted this as a new rally cry in defiance of a new administration in Washington, which has been less than friendly to women’s rights. I digress however, as this is a blog about life with mental illness.

    “She was warned.”

    I was warned, sort of. I see this as more of the stinging rebuke once passed onto me by a therapist who chose to give up on me as a patient than take the time to assess if my diagnosis of postpartum depression needed to be revisited. I was deemed by the provider to still have the diagnosis, but that I was unruly, untethered, wild, and unable to be properly treated. And so, with the unruliness statement and the subsequent discharge from the practice I had my warning. I had the warning that I was too sick to manage, too sick to be treated and too sick for other providers to consider.

    “She was given an explanation.”

    In time, I was given an explanation. It took a second suicide attempt and hospitalization to get one. It was explained to my husband and I that I was bipolar. The diagnosis of postpartum depression, while once fitting, no longer applied. It was an explanation that I would need to hear over and over and over before I could really hear it. I would be hospitalized two more times before I would begin to understand what this explanation, what being diagnosed with bipolar disorder really means. This explanation still needs to be repeated to me from time to time as a refresher to best grasp the implications for my family and myself. I have an explanation no matter how many times I need to hear the words that I live with bipolar disorder.

    “Nevertheless, she persisted.”

    And how. This diagnosis, this challenge, has not kept me down. I persist due to my family. I persist due to the psychiatrist who thought “what the hell, I’ll take her on.” I persist due to my own bullish tenacity to prove others wrong. I persist to prove my old therapist wrong. I persist to prove any and all naysayers wrong. I can and did achieve a fragile state of remission. I persist to demonstrate to the attending psychiatrist during my last hospitalization that she was right. She told me I needed to get better and use my voice, my knowledge, my medical training for good rather than self-pity.

    Nevertheless, I Persist.

    And so can you.

  • Dear Former Therapist

    Dear Former Therapist, 

    When you told me I needed to leave your practice that day in 2012 because I was too surly, too out of control, I was too beyond your help, did you know how sick I was? When you left my family and myself without a safety net, could you understand the consequences your actions would later have?

    Would you realize how many therapists would turn me down, citing I was too acute to accept into their practice? Would you know once I found one willing to tackle the challenge of healing my mind, it would take over a month for me to actually be seen? Would you know that they too would find me so ill that they would demand I agree to a higher level of care first?

    Did you see the decline coming? Did you recognize what was happening, woven into the surliness you were refusing to work with? I wasn’t sleeping save a few hours with a cocktail of medications. I was drinking to self-medicate feelings away. I was a waif of a human being, frail, scared and unable to cope with sight of my own shadow. Did you understand what diagnostic clues the trail of self-destruction would lead to? Were you able to see through the muddy waters of all my symptoms and recognize I was misdiagnosed with post-partum depression?

    Could you have predicted that I would attempt to take my life on more than one occasion in the months that followed? Why did you not see, with your expertise that my diagnosis was so much more than depression? Why did you not recognize I needed a new treatment plan written for the mania I was experiencing, which we now know is bipolar 1 disorder.

    Do you understand how much anger I have held in the ensuing years since toward you? Do you understand how much pain could have been avoided with a proper diagnosis rather than a reluctance to do the work and see me – really see me – for the lost, sick individual I was?

    Today I write to not only ask you these questions, but also tell you I forgive you. I Forgive You.

    Your mistake, your failure to properly diagnose me has only made me stronger and more determined. Determined to never accept inadequate care again. Determined to always have my voice heard by my providers.

    Determined to ensure patients never feel they are alone in their journey. Determined to create partnerships with patients, for if the patient buys into their treatment, they are more likely to adhere to the plan over the long term. Determined to foster autonomy when feasible and recognize when it is not.

    I will not fit into the box you tried to place me in.

    Sincerely,

    Your Former Patient