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Traits of successful therapist:
- Acceptance and prizing of client
- Sensitive ability to see world through client's eyes
Traits of successful client
Since I'm having another white night, and I'm trying not to lose my mind, let me tell you all about the 'help' I've received. Age 3-5, mom shnorks me into therapy because she's sure I'm all fucked up from the divorce and my dad being crazy. I know that she didn't put me in there for me to talk about her crazy, and dad really wasn't, so... all THAT did was tell me there was something goddamn wrong with me. From five til nine and a half, the rest of the time I lived with her, she shnorked me in and out of therapy. I go live with my dad. Things are good for a while. I hit twelve, I'm a miserable anxious shaking shy girl turning ten pounds of real babyfat into fifty of imagianary grossness. I start not getting along with dad so well. No, I don't want to go to school, that place makes my stomach hurt (Note, no one picked on me. I was just anxious)it makes my chest hurt it makes me cry what's wrong with me? So he sticks me in therapy, at which point mom calls and tells them he's been molesting me (not true, not him) and they spend a year trying to yank that repressed memory pack out of me instead of helping me. I hit thirteen, I rebelled. Fuck you, I'm shaving my head and wearing black. I will defend myself enough to say that when I'm not dressing like a hippy, it's all fishnets and velvet and blah blah, I do like the style, but I also know I was desperate to not be alone then, too. It was a combination. Anyway, then they stick me in behavioral therapy. Put me on antidepressants. I'm not bloody depressed, I'm so anxious I only sleep every other night, and most of the time everything is slow torture. From twelve to nineteen I was in therapy. For the wrong shit. I quit going right before I turn 20. Then I moved up to Indy for good. Things were good, better than they had ever been. Then my dad had a stroke. Then Sam and Kenny fucking tried out for the worst roomates ever award. And I wasn't equipped to deal. August-December last year was the most intense part of my life so far. Four or five good sized panic attacks a day. Couldn't leave the house. Couldn't stop the pills, couldn't work regularly. I treated Owen like garbage sometimes, and I try not to regret things, but I regret that so much that the screen's getting blurry. Anyway, around December it all comes to a head, as far as the pills, and I go to the methadone clinic, which kind of takes care of the anxiety because it is pure distilled pink sleepy juice. Oh wait, ahead of myself. As far as getting help when I lost it in August. I set up an appointment with a shrink my insurance would cover. For fucking October. And they (And I understand this policy) won't prescribe until I've been seen. Things get bad, go to the ER. I can't go to the ER five times a year, let alone a day. I'm miserable, NO ONE WILL FUCKING HELP ME. I'm getting passed around. Fucking wrote off. Everywhere I go. I go to the ER once or twice. I'm treated like a junkie. (Ironically, when I would sort of scam for pills, like, the oral surgery for my wisdom teeth is far away, they don't hurt that bad, but my regular dentist don't know that, so I'd tell him it hurt and he's hook me up. (I have some pride in the fact that I've never totally just scammed for pills, just... taken advantage of the situation) I had no problem. I go in for real actual help, and I. Am. Treated. Like. Shit.) I go to medchecks and immediate cares and stuff. At one, I'm given a ten day supply of Ativan. Lo and behold, there is something on the planet that helps. I believe I got another script while at the ER for my kidney stone (Such a wonderful six months that was!) and one more to make it to that October appointment from an Immediatecare place. I picked the worst fucking shrink in Marion county. When I go in, all I give a shit about is getting more ativan. He gives it. I ask for a mild sleep aid. He gives me fucking Thorazine! I took half of a 25 milligram tablet and was zonked and zombied for twenty four hours. The hardcore junkies, junkies in the William S. Burroughs sense of the word, wouldn't touch them. People who would pop anything wouldn't take them. Fuck, what a moron. I go back and to help with my mood swings, he gives me Lamactil. A five week supply in a case. ALL OVER THIS CASE it says things like DO NOT TAKE IF YOU HAVE ALLERGIES, DO NOT TAKE ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE SENSITIVE SKIN. I mention that my skin is the only thing disturbed easier than my peace of mind, he tells me it's fine. I go home, take one dose. Bout five hours later, I get a rash on my knees and elbows. Not a biggie, although depressing, I won't be able to take this medication if a 25 mg dose did this and the idea dose is 200 mg. A few hours after that, I start having trouble breathing. To the ER we go. On Owens birthday, because I didn't feel shitty enough. They gave me super benadryl and other stuff and sent me home. I called the doc three times. He finally called me back, said that we'd tried all there was to try! In two visits?! There's a damn cornocopia of shit we haven't tried. He says he'll give me a three month script for the Ativan, but I need to go somewhere else for help. I go in there for the script, and I'm looking around, and motherfucker has a Master of Science degree on the wall. He was grandfathered in! not a real shrink! I asked if he ever went to update type courses, because most fields, especially psych, they're still learning stuff. He says no! And that degree was dated 1969! No wonder he gave me thorazine for a 'light sleep aid'! So I looked up the AADA, or ADAA, or whatever, American anxiety doctors association. And I find a well qualified doc that specializes. Now, that same guy wants to not give me any Ativan ever again, because of my addict past. FUCK.