Today, while I was having a panic attack, for reasons still unknown to me, the teacher had me come up in front of the class with my "lesbian partner" (we have family groups in my family counseling class) and have a therapy session with him. I didn't have a clue what was going on. I hadn't been paying attention in class due to the crying and panic. And, actually, I've never paid much attention in class anyways. We had our session. I let her (my lesbian partner) answer most of the questions. I just sort of nodded along. I'm not on currently any fast acting anxiety medications. Instead I'm on a long lasting anti-anxiety medication twice a day. For a list of what I'm currently taking check out this post. However that doesn't help when I feel like I'm about to throw up, and I'm having a panic attack.
The worst thing was that the professor knew what was going on. He could see it. He's a counselor himself. He could see me mostly successfully holding back tears, but not completely. He could see the panic in my eyes when I looked at him. The tapping of my foot. But he asked me to do it anyways. I understand that it was in the lesson plan, but still.
Another class I'm taking is Organic Chemistry Two. How's that going? Not well. I got a 30% on my first exam. I've decided to drop the class and take a W (withdraw). But I haven't done it yet, I'm kind of scared to. Also, I feel like a failure doing it. Because I know I can do it. I know I can. I do. If I put in the time. And I just can't seem to do that. Therefore, I can't do the class. I spend too much of my time sleeping and recovering and doing nothing.
My third class is going really well. My professor today told me I made the highest grade in the class on our first exam (a 93%). When I first saw the grade I was disappointed. I thought I could do better. But after finding out it was the highest grade in the class I felt much better. Also, he said there is a very good chance I can do research with him in the fall. Which is exciting because he's a neuroscientist. And working in a neuroscience lab and getting a letter of recommendation from a neuroscience professor is good when applying to PhD programs for neuroscience. As long as I don't have to sacrifice anything. I absolutely refuse to do that. Point blank refuse.
My last two summer classes were Cellular and Molecular Biology and Young Adult Literature which went alright. I got an A in YA Lit and a C in Cellular and Molecular Biology. Which I'm content with. Although I really wanted a B in Cellular and Molecular Biology. As part of YA Lit I wrote two chapters set in the psychiatric emergency room and the children's psychiatric ward, if any of you want to read it. Just send me an email ats cassandra.cassandrascurse@gmail.com or comment below. At this time I do not plan on writing any more of it.
Also, while on the topic of mental illness and school, as many of you know Spring of 2014, I took a medical withdraw. I don't know if I mentioned it in post about it or not. I don't remember. But that was also due to mental illness. So yay mental illness and school. I was unable to attend classes. And couldn't be in Columbia. I needed to be in Charleston. Although, it is interesting that I made it through school last semester (with my best GPA to date!) while missing four non-consecutive weeks of classes due to being in the mental hospital three times plus partial hospitalization.
Are any of you taking summer classes? If so how are they going? How has mental illness affected your school/work/etc. experience?
I've spent a long time trying to figure out what I want to say in this post. I, for the most part, know who reads this and most of you I don't mind you knowing this. I'm still hesitant though. But, I know that this is related to stigma, and I shouldn't be ashamed of what's going on. As you probably all know, or have figured out I have depression. Pretty severe depression. I have moderate to severe persistent depressive disorder, recurrent severe major depressive disorder, and anxiety disorder unspecified. While that's only three diagnoses, it can be a lot to handle. Despite it all, I am grateful that I do not have it worse.
So, here's what you probably don't know. I've been to a psych ward. I've been in the psych ward a lot this year. Why this year and not before? I couldn't tell you. Maybe I'm getting worse. Maybe I'm accepting that I need help. Maybe I could have ridden it out, like I've always done before, but maybe not. Maybe going in saved my life, or at least a trip or two to the ICU. I don't know. It's hard to say for sure.
I call them part one, part two, and part three. And I might write more about them later. I spent half of February in the psych ward, on two separate occasions. I spent half of March in partial hospitalization, and I spent a week in April in the hospital again. In part three we joked a lot about how I should write a book. After all It's Kind of a Funny Story was written after a much shorter hospital stay. And I have way more experience than that.
The worst part is, my treatment team is not sure what to do with me anymore. I mean they weren't sure what to do with me before I went in all those times, but they thought we could work something out. But now the counseling center at my school says it's unethical to treat me. Because after all I've been through clearly they're not helping. I offered to switch to a new therapist at the counseling center but they say it's not enough. They don't think their level of care is good enough for me because of the hospitalizations and partial hospitalization.
I have started therapy with a new person. He, I guess, is more qualified. He specifically does DBT, dialectal behavioral therapy. I've seen him several times, and I do like him. I guess this therapy is replacing therapy at the counseling center. All I ask is that I can continue to see my psychiatrist, who I adore. In a few weeks I'm going to start a DBT group for two hours per week. I'm pretty nervous about that, but talking in groups is getting easier for me. And later this summer I'm taking a public communication class. Which just thinking about speeds up my heart and makes me want to cry. But as strange as it sounds (to me at least) I am getting better. I'm sure it's all the talking, not only in therapy, but in the groups in the hospital and partial. This has changed since I've written it. Like I said, I've been sitting on this post for months and months. I'm now taking organic chemistry two instead of public communication. But, I still have to take public communication eventually, so I decided to leave that in.
The title of this post comes from the song "You've Got Time" by Regina Spektor. It is, as many of you probably know, the theme song from Orange is the New Black. Which I watch. Just like everyone else who has Netflix and is (hopefully) above 18, which I'm sure stops no one. Despite the triggers it brings up in me, I pushed through it.
I chose that song quote because it accurately sums up my hospital experience. It really is "different" the second time around, especially for me. Part two I even made a friend. Who I still talk to a lot. Part three they called me the welcoming committee. And I wish I could know how my fellow psych patients are doing. I've talked to one person once from part three since I got out.
My dad said it must have been easy to talk to everyone because I felt better than them. My parents know about part three, and ONLY part three and partial, because of insurance reasons. But I told him we were all there for a reason. And I didn't feel better than anyone. And I really didn't. How could I? He then asked my reason and I replied to change meds, which is my story that I'm telling to my parents. And he was like why? And I said because I wasn't doing well. And he asked if I had bad thoughts. And I said yes. So he at least knows that. I hope my parents never find out how close I've been so many times - even this past weekend I had to lock myself out of my room. But as they said in part two "it is what it is." They even had a huge sign that said it in the group room.
Another thing has happened too. This is not something we want to be spread around. So if you know me in real life, please don't tell anyone you know. It is only half my business. My dad left my mom. That's right. My dad left my mom. It is a big shock because they weren't fighting or anything. He told us he's leaving because he wants a romantic relationship, something he and my mom were lacking. My baby sisters have seen him once this week. It's been really hard for all of us.
I'm not sure if I have anything else to say right now. I think I'm going to finally publish this post. I'm open to any questions you have about the hospital visits or my parents or anything else. If you have them leave a comment or email me at cassandra.cassandrascurse@gmail.com. If you get this in an email, just a reminder, do not reply to that email, because I will not receive it. I know a few of you need this reminder. Anyways, as always, thanks for reading.
As you know, or I hope you know, I have recently started a Twitter account. Twitter is one of the strangest and most anxiety provoking social media site. Mostly for the reason that all social media is scary -- people can see stuff that you say. Now you're probably thinking you're a blogger, you WANT people to see the things that you say. Why else would you have a blog? Now that is a very good question. See, as a blogger, I want more readers. I think most bloggers want more readers. We want people to talk about us. We want people to tell their friends about us. We want people to share our blog with everyone they know and everyone else, too. (hint hint) But, at the same time, I do not want more people to read the things that I write, because that's scary. For some reason more readers does not equate to more people reading my posts. What can I say? Anxiety brain is a strange thing. Now that is not to say I don't like my readers. Oh no. I love my readers. Hi guys. But people reading the things I have to say is a scary thought. I'm not going to lie.
Back to Twitter... Twitter is basically "how many people want to see everything I'm thinking." Maybe I don't want people to know what I'm thinking. Maybe I'm not thinking anything. Maybe I'm only thinking boring things. I don't get how people can continually think of interesting things to put on Twitter. I sure can't. Maybe that's why I don't post as much as many other people. Or maybe I just feel like nothing I have to say is important enough. Low self-esteem for the win.
But why is it scary? Famous people have Twitter accounts. Authors, bloggers, and people I look up to have accounts. Sure, following someone isn't all that scary. Especially someone popular. What's one more follower to them? However, Twitter is set up to have conversations. Maybe it's just me, but I'm terrified to send a Tweet to someone who I admire. I'm afraid to reply to something someone says. Am I afraid of being judged? Nope. Just afraid. I don't know what to say, and I just can't say anything. It's weird. Of course it's even harder in real life. In real life you're not allowed to freeze up. In real life you can't freeze up or cry. But that doesn't make it any less difficult on Twitter. It's hard for me to understand how people can just answer strangers. I have a difficult time talking to people I know, but people I don't know? nearly impossible.
