PIOP

Psychiatric Intensive Out-patient Program, or PIOP, was something I got put into by one of the good doctors I saw while in the military. It was basically a two-week long, seven to eight hour therapy group. The "curriculum" used several different techniques such as art therapy, psychodrama, CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy), and just regular talk/group therapy. I think there were six of us.

PIOP was the first time I ever did any kind of group therapy, and I was nervous as all hell. I don't particularly like speaking even one-on-one with someone I know, but this was in front of a group of strangers. Needless to say, Clonazepam was my best friend those two weeks.

The schedule differed a little everyday, and certain things like art and drama were only used a few times, but everyday we started with saying how last night went and then with a kind of warm-up. The warm-up was fairly simple--a family-friendly mash-up of musical chairs and "Never Have I Ever," or a race-type game involving CBT trivia--just to make us a little more apt to talk later.

This was a few years ago, so I can't remember all of it. I do, however, remember getting caught up in other people's therapy. This was after I decided I needed to be a therapist, so I was fascinated by the process.
Basically, one person would be convinced to talk about why they were there and about their past, and the rest of us were encouraged to comment, ask questions, and challenge that person's inconsistencies and distortions. I, being the weird, awkward fuck I am, really enjoyed this part. Listening to their stories and then giving them feedback.

Then it was my turn.

One of them expressed some solidarity when it came to my past abuse, but when it came to my biggest problem, no one--not even the facilitators--know what to say. I was struggling with the concept of self-worth. Not self-esteem, but worth. You can't have self-esteem unless you also agree that you are not simply taking up space and resources with your existence. It was a kind of existential crises that I was dealing with everyday, that no one there had even considered. They took their right to exist for granted. I'm sure it is probably an evolutionary thing. I did eventually figure this out, but that's another post. Basically they told me I "think too much."

Art therapy was fun, but not really helpful at the time. Psychodrama was lame except for a quick moment where I actually believed myself when I said that "I'm not worthless," and CBT and learning the drama triangle were enlightening, but I wouldn't use that until later.

All in all, it was a great experience. Most hospitals don't call it PIOP, but I'm willing to bet a lot have something similar; so if you need it, I'd totally recommend it.

Friday is another check-in, and Monday I'll write more on the whole "self-worth" thing.

Be well!
~ML

The Stupid Journey

So I have already talked about my general life story leading up to this point. It was long, depressing, and possibly boring for you all to read it. Now, let me tell you a little better of a story: my string of therapists.

My first one ever was when I was about 16. He seemed friendly enough. This is how our first (and only) session went:

"Hi, ML, I'm Dr. ____"
"Hi."
[insert forty minutes of silence]
"Okay, that's all we have time for!"
"...Al-alright..."
The end.

Yes, this guy decided to go all psychoanalytical on a sixteen year old girl without ever explaining the process. I was already really shy and nervous, why the hell would I ever talk to this guy without any kind of lead? Ah, well, maybe the next one will be better. (Spoiler alert: not really)

The second guy, I saw twice. The first time, mom and I sat in his office and we talked in a really vague manner about what was going on, and then he proceeded to diagnose me with ADD. Then he decided I should get an IQ test (which apparently is a good measure for ADD? I have no idea), just to be sure. I took the test a couple days later, and then the second appointment, he wanted to dive right into my issues for real (after "confirming" ADD)....with my mom still in the freakin' room.
So, no. But I did get to find out my IQ, which was pretty cool.

The next one was a lady. She was older, friendly, and actually seemed to know what she was talking about (in retrospect), but she talked to me like a kindergartner. Literally.
"OMG, hi, you must be ML! Well I'm ____ and we're going to have such a fun time!" What can I expect, really, mom chose her because she was a child therapist. I saw her one more time before I just couldn't take it anymore.

After her, I gave up on therapy for quite awhile. I just went to a psychiatrist for years. I hated it; I would get asked how I'm doing, and quickly get shot down because I'm talking too much. She was somewhat nice about it, but it was still jarring. Eventually, I ran out of insurance and then I moved when my husband got stationed in VA.

I didn't see anyone else until I after I joined the military. First, they put me on some horrible medication; it caused "brain-shivers" so badly that I almost crashed my car multiple times. Then they absolutely denied that a) it would cause side-effects and b) it would cause any kind of withdrawal symptoms (they called it "discontinuation effects" instead). Anyway, I got put back on Zoloft which is what I'm still on now. After pushing for it, they finally let me see a therapist.

This guy was very nice, sensible, knowledgeable, and not even too bad to look at--the only problem I had with him is that he was a newbie, so his idea of the human psyche was fairly inflexible. I am told that my insight is fairly high ("impressive" I've been recently told), and he didn't seem capable of understanding that. He just needs practice. I stopped seeing that guy because he got deployed.

They decided to shove me onto the civilians then. The first one I already mentioned here. She really needed her own bit of therapy and a refresher course in anxiety.
The second one was the miracle lady who made me realize that I should become a therapist myself. I say "miracle lady," because it was through her absolutely terrible therapy that I got over a pretty big hump in my life.

The next pair of people, a psychologist and a psychiatrist, were awesome. They cared, they knew what they were doing, they were easy to talk to (as much as military officers for a little E-2 can be), and they gave me a little more faith in finding someone in the profession to help me once I got separated from the military. It was also them who sent me to a military program called PIOP: psychiatric intensive out-patient program. I'll talk more about that later, but it was a really neat experience (not therapeutic, but neat!).

After them I had a pretty good string of civilian therapists in STL, only to have two of them leave because of job promotion or relocation. Those are, I think, the worst. You develop a rapport, spill your guts, cry a little, then you have to try to start all over again with someone else who you are terrified will suck or move, too.
Now I have a great (probably even the best, for me) therapist who really seems to understand both my issues and my dark, sarcastic humor. She is great and--surprise!--works at the VA. Who'd've thought anything good could come out of that hellhole?

To anyone who still hasn't yet found that "special someone" for your therapeutic process, just know that they are out there--you just have to keep looking for them. It may take a really, really long time (I don't sugarcoat this shit), but once you find them, it is SO worth it. My experience is that those who are actually psychologists tend to do better than social workers or counselors, but this is only me--I could just be a special case.

Anyway, I hope my story has been enlightening, hope-inspiring, or at the very least entertaining. I'd also LOVE to hear your stories--both good and cringe-worthy--so leave'em in the comments!

Keep lookin'!
~ML

Biography Lite, pt. 2

Last time I talked about my early childhood, and it was kinda depressing as hell. This is the second half of my story, and still kinda depressing/infuriating depending on where you are...but after this, I swear it'll be much better!

Socially, I was now awkward and nervous, always afraid I'd have to live through my experiences again due to trusting the wrong student. So friends were out.
Schoolwork was a no-go.
My parents were still too distracted to care or notice.
I was alone with no reason to feel any sense of self-worth.

When I was young, I wanted to run away, but I was too afraid I'd run into more evil people. When I started to understand I could die--around fifth or sixth grade--I was suicidal. My anxiety saved me, however, as I knew that even one minor miscalculation and I could end up paralyzed, brain-dead, or worse. So that's basically how I've spent the rest of my life to this point.
I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth, dropped out of college, then started a long, unfulfilling career in customer service. My boyfriend at the time--in 2007--dropped out of college and joined the Navy. I supported his decision, but was really jealous myself: I come from a relatively militaristic family. When he left boot camp, he went to 'A' school in Great Lakes, IL.
It was one particularly shitty night for me--sitting in my stained Taco Bell uniform, about to go to work--that he called. The conversation was fairly short as I had to leave soon, but it was the call in which he proposed to me.
Me? Really? The borderline hysterically depressed bitch who can't make anything of herself and can barely handle food service?
Yep.
I still can't quite figure it out now, but we've been married since November of that year so I must be doing something right. Anyway, 2010 rolls around and I'm now fairly stable, emotionally. I'm healthy, mostly happy, getting better by the day...so fuck it--let's enlist!
Now I'm not Wonder Woman, but I'm not the Penguin, either, and I made a 90 on the ASVAB so I could pick any job I want; AD, no contest. I was so ecstatic that I cried all one and a half hours home from MEPS. Finally--I get to make myself and my family proud and have a job that actually means something.

In boot camp. I'm fucking loved the physical side of it all; the recruits are all stupid fucks, but I was in the best shape of my life and I still felt like I'm going to make a difference.
One month in--halfway through--and something's wrong. I was bleeding like crazy every night, and it felt like I was shitting razor blades. Everything else was fine, so the HMC told me to just stop eating peanut butter (because he doesn't bother to listen to more than half of what I say). This didn't help, obviously, but I push through to 'A' school in FL. The doctor there took one look and told me that I have Crohn's disease.
"It's incurable, but it's treatable, and you'll probably have to be medically discharged."
He set me up with a GI doc at the hospital and practically shoved me out the door. My only information about Crohn's at this point was Google and WebMD.
So now I'm alone, about to go through physical hell, and terrified. I've always had a fear of doctors, so this doesn't help. One day I write to my husband, telling him we need to find him a good mother for his future children, and how I loved him and just wanted to best for him and how I couldn't give that to him anymore...basically, my plan was find him a good wife and then off myself.

Because I was already given shore duty, they allowed me to transfer despite my medical condition. I really wish I hadn't. My new command hated broken people. And that's all I was to them: broken. I couldn't do heavy lifting, I couldn't exercise with them, I couldn't stand for too long...I was useless, and they made sure I never fucking forgot it.

It actually got so bad that my GI doc asked me if someone was hurting me. My posture, demeanor, and even vocabulary had changed to the point where he thought someone was beating the shit out of me. Nope, I'm just hated and verbally berated everyday because I'm a useless human being, is all...I was told I could change commands, but they said they couldn't guarantee that it was going to be any better.

During this time I was seeing different therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors. I won't go into all the different people I saw, as that's another post, but one of them was particularly helpful in how fucking awful she was as a therapist. After not listening to a word I said and asking me about my sister for the third time that session (the one that I have never had), I had a mini-breakdown. I felt like no one understood what it was like to just suddenly become disabled like I had. No one cared. And mainly, no one could help. But here's where it gets awesome: I realized that I understood. I cared. And with training, I could help others like me.

I was already going to be kicked out of my life purpose once. But this gave me hope that I would find it again. I just have to get through school...

And that's where I am now.

This Fall will be my third year in school majoring in psychology. I'm still battling depression, and have resigned myself to the idea that I probably will be forever. But my struggle has purpose now, and I'm trying my damnedest to remember that.

Next time I'm checking in, and I encourage all of you to do so as well--I'll be setting goals for myself for the next week, and evaluating how I did this week, so come join me! Monday will be a sort of fun shaming of the process I went through to find a therapist worth talking to, and hopefully these stories will help someone realize that it just takes time (and a LOT of trial and error) to get in a good spot.

Thanks, guys!
~ML