A clinical psychologist admits she’s a hypocrite when it comes to her own mental illness

My recent move to another state is forcing me to find new doctors. Finding new doctors means filling out endless forms with health questions ranging from the tiniest, goofiest details to one tiny line designed to describe the absolute worst long-term illness of your life.

New forms litter my desk. There are “light” things – asthma, allergies, arthritis, gall bladder, caesarean section. I know the how, when and why of them.

I’m not thrilled with them, but I’ve weathered their storms and they don’t define my personality. I’ve spent entire rides with Uber drivers unconsciously sharing the personal details of our shared ailments.

Then there are things that are not so easy.

Over time, I’ve become more comfortable with communicating about my mental illness, as well as my feelings about it have diseases

How do I give credit to words like bipolar 2, major depression, panic disorder, therapy, ECT, and the handful of pills I count down at night to get me through the next day? How can I say, “Yes, I had all these things, but now I’m “okay”?

I alternate between leaving long blanks or providing a level of detail that, as a psychologist, I might include in one of my patient’s intake forms.

I tell myself that the details on my medical forms are meant to be “helpful”. After all, the comorbidity of mental illness and other health problems is important and could be important to include, especially as I get older. Similar deal with my medication. But it is not so realy is true.

woman fills out forms Alex Green | Pexels

my real the reason is to communicate my mental illness in such a direct way that I can protect myself.

I want to seem “in control”, “on top of everything”. I need the kryptonite to ward off judgments from any strangers that I must be stupid. “Hello, I’m a psychologist. I take it all in stride. And I probably know more about mental illness than you do.”

It works with about 25% of doctors. We engage in a mutual exchange of pertinent facts about my illness, current research, and their openness to talking with my psychiatrist. Some of them briefly described their struggle.

The other 75% either do not complain about their ignorance or are not interested in psychiatry. Or they may claim to be experts without having any real evidence to back it up. They give out tips that can be found in Reader’s Digest.

Instead of offering a consultation with my psychiatrist, they present alternative theories and treatments to those that already work for me. Even when I don’t seek their help for any issues related to mental illness.

I was warned by doctors, nurses, assistants and administrators Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), although I made it clear that this was the only truth that saved my life. I came in with a temperature of 102 and was told I would I would be less depressed if I exercised more. I believe this is true, but not with a hacking cough for a month.

These “interventions” are usually carried out with an air of experienced benevolence, which is often patronizing. Almost all my presentation problems are visible through the prism of psychiatric diagnoses. I want to comment: “Excuse me, but when was the last time you read something remotely related to mental illness?’ But I’m not.

Diseases himself are stigmatized, as are providers. It is similar to the fact that the degree of complexity of mental health is considered much lower than many other medical interventions. I have a psychiatrist, but the need to include it in the corresponding medical condition does not impress them.

Over the course of 30 years, I became comfortable opening up about my struggles with mood disorders and anxiety, so much so that I have written and spoken extensively about education, advocacy, and personal experiences.

I was humbled by the healing power of the stories my friends and I shared. But there is one thing that leaves a lot of space on the forms. It’s “paranoid psychosiseight years ago. My first impulse is to leave it. But because it was caused by a severe combination of lithium intoxication and a dangerous drug interaction, I know it has a place on my record.

One morning I inexplicably woke up in a psychiatric ward. I knew I was in the wrong place, so I gathered my things and headed for the door. The security guard stood with his arms crossed under the “Escape Risk” sign. I was wondering what that was all about.

A guard blocked my way. I explained the error. He grabbed my hand. I cursed at him and fought. Finally a nurse came over and asked me what I thought I was doing.

“I’m going home.”

“No, you are not. You stay here.”

“I need to call my family,” I insisted.

“Okay, call them.”

My sister came to the phone. I told her that I was being held against my will and that she should come for me. She explained to me that I was sick and I needed to go to the hospital. What?

I hung up on her and went through a long list of family members. They all sounded ridiculous and no one wanted to tell me what I had done to end up in the hospital against my will. It must have been very bad. I went for hours until it became crystal clear that my family wanted to kill me and they hired staff to do it.

The first thought was that I would be poisoned. I gave up food and lived on individually packaged snacks. When the staff sat with me and coaxed me to eat, I was sure the food was spoiled.

Based on the “code” in the blue lights and the sound of helicopter wings buzzing every night, I was convinced that killers were after me with plans to kill me and dump my body in the Chesapeake Bay. I stayed awake and hypervigilantand I counted their shoes as they approached my room.

But every night something went wrong. There were too many people in the helicopter and they ran out of gas. I was asleep from 3 to 5 in the morning when one of the lead nurses put a blood pressure cuff on me and announced, “It’s another great day!” She constantly mocked me.

I discovered numerous conspiracies in the unit, as if the nursing students were trainee cosmetologists trying to extort money from old ladies with their bad products. When one of them sat down next to me and asked if she heard my “story,” I replied, “Get the hell away from me!” I instantly regretted my display of emotion because I knew it would be used against me.

Strange nurses began to be brought at night. As they gave me my medicine, they patted the shiny scalpels that glowed in their pockets. Enough said.

I have never felt so desperately alone. Never been so dangerously vulnerable. By the tenth day I was so depressed that every time I woke up I would murmur, “Oh my God, I’m still alive.”

What was happening was real. I did not tell anyone about these conspiracies against me, fearing that their reaction would be aggravated. My mind was consumed with attention to every thing that could be a threat to me. Three weeks of screaming, silent hell have passed. The staff said I felt much better. Whatever that means.

But what about my family? I began to believe that they would never plot to kill me. I was released with the same confusion as to why I was incarcerated in the first place. I kept myself away from even my closest family members, convinced that I could easily end up back in the hospital if I said the wrong thing.

Over the following weeks, I began to reflect on my beliefs in the hospital and thought…Wait a minute, this could not happen. Doubt saved me, as it saves people recovering from delusions. But the emotions were so real. Sometimes it is still so real it makes me shudder.

supportive group therapy meeting Tima Miroshnychenko Pexels

At the beginning of my training, I was assigned to lead a therapy group, which was the last choice for any of the trainees. It had a crazy reputation, and the members were manic, schizophrenic and mentally ill – guys who only came because there was a decent lunch after being in the group.

One day, when everyone seemed to be decompensated at the same time, my favorite boyfriend emphatically uttered a line that has always stayed with me: “Hey Doc,” he joked, “Call the police. We are out of control.” There are moments of personal upheaval when I repeat these words to myself. They always make me smile.

We finally found a way to help our group feel in control identifying life skills to learn. So much stood between them and the seemingly “simple” coping mechanisms that make life easier.

I stole the phone and we took turns calling imaginary places and initiating the call with our requests. Once a young lad was busy with what was auditory hallucinations. I asked one of the three dumbest questions of my clinical life. “Tom, do you have any thoughts of your own?”

He was so surprised that he just looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and answered solemnly, “Yes.” He was quite aware of what was going on, but his inner experience was persistent and private. It was like he was caught between two worlds, and I had to respect that.

I had my own thoughts. Only I didn’t know they existed only my. The joke was on me. And I still don’t know the point. All I knew was the red line stigma between mood disorders and psychosesparanoia and delusions.

Yes, I know the enlightened party line and I know the “right things” about mental illness—it’s not my fault—but that’s no comfort.

“Losing my mind” was the worst thing that ever happened in my life. I don’t know how it happened. So I don’t know how to prevent this from happening again. I know the scientific psychopharmacological basis of my catastrophe. But this does not erase emotionality experience this

In the brutality of severe mental illness, our boundaries are torn apart. The membranes that hold us together are losing their strength. We are drifting in a solar system of suffering. Our once brave, beautiful brain loses its ability to control us. Comfort is a foreign concept.

How do we manage even the smallest details of life that are beyond our control? We don’t even distinguish friends from enemies. Can you trust love? We are aliens known to everyone but ourselves. Will the essence of our being ever return? Will we know when that happens?

I remember that time with jagged sharpness. I try to forget it on purpose.

Sometimes I feel so “crazy” when it comes to me, but other times I feel extremely enriched by the wisdom and grace that comes with survival.

AND Results of the 2022 study that the prevalence of mental disorders, including addictions, has increased during the COVID-19 pandemic and is likely to remain high in its aftermath. Until now, health care providers have been taught, consciously or unconsciously, to prioritize the care of others over themselves. Difficulties in seeking help when needed should be addressed during undergraduate studies and throughout one’s professional career.

My doctor’s appointment this afternoon. I think I’ll keep my story to myself for now. Until I know that he is worth it.

Martha Manning, PhD, clinical psychologist and author. She has published five books, written for the New York Times, Washington Post, Readers Digest, Psychotherapy Networker, Ladies Home Journal, Harpers Bazaar, and has written 400 stories for Medium. People and USA Today magazines wrote about her. She starred in the Emmy-nominated HBO documentary Dead Blue alongside Mike Wallace and William Styron.