The past few visits that I have had with my psychologist have been different from that I have experienced in the past.
The original purpose of my therapy was to learn the coping skills necessary for my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. After about six months of therapy I felt that we had reached a point in my recovery that indicated that I was able to sufficiently deal with my struggles with less psychological supervision. I scheduled my appointments from seeing my therapist from once a week to every other week as part of my weaning process from counseling.
It seemed like a effective plan. I felt good about my decision. It was a relief knowing that the process of accepting my mental state of mind was going according to plan.
Then a crisis in my life appeared. I lost one of my children to suicide. As a result, my world was turned upside down. I went from a good mental state of being to one of emotional chaos. My number of visits went from my scheduled plan of twice a month to twice a week. The intentions of my sessions changed from one of recovery to one of loss.
In previous appointments I looked at my psychologist's face. I noticed his eyes, his hair, his cheekbones and the way he brought his hand to his face as he listened to me intently. I am obsessed with his hands. His fingers possess an air of elegance.
The more recent appointments progressed into something different. I went from looking at my psychologist's face to avoiding eye contact at all costs. I find interest in the room around me during our discussions. This usually takes place when I feel the burning of tears welling into my eyes. I look at the reflection of a lamp in the mirror behind his head. I scan the frames on the wall. I study the bookshelf by his chair and try to make out the titles. I consider the style of decor in his office. Did he choose his furniture and its placement or did the room come fully furnished? I follow the pattern on his sweater or the buttons of his shirt. I notice the texture of his pants. I need to make a mental note to look at his shoes at today's session. I do anything to distract me from my emotional pain.
I wonder about the car he drives and if my numerous appointments are funding a vehicle upgrade in the near future. Does he pay rent or a mortgage? One of the most pressing questions is his age. He is an excellent psychologist. When did he graduate from college? What degree does he have; what are his credentials? I haven't noticed any framed diplomas on his wall. This does not give me the opportunity to count backwards from the day of his graduation to the year he was born. I make another mental note to search for a diploma.
Is there a necessity for therapy? I lost my son. Anyone in my condition would be in emotional distress. I know that I will forever feel the loss of my child. I realize that crying is a part of the grieving process. I understand that everything will get easier with time. How many days, weeks, months or years will I need the luxury of the help of a psychologist? If I decide to quit now, can I resolve my issues on my own? Definitely not. My original schedule concerning therapy has changed. It has been redirected towards another path; a path of which I know is not certain. Whatever the outcome, at the moment, I feel comfort knowing that I do not have to travel that path alone.
My husband used to tell me that he loved me just the way I am. I haven't heard him say that in a long time. I cannot pinpoint the exact time that he discontinued saying that phrase. Truthfully, I did not notice that he stopped saying it at all.
In the past I played the sweet, loving wife and he the adoring husband. One day I suddenly turned from someone with a beautiful, kind heart to a person who was angry and bitter. I became someone that he did not know.
We fought. We distanced ourselves from each other. We talked about ending our marriage.
Although it seems like that part of our relationship occurred a lifetime ago, in reality, it has only been a couple of years. In that short time we have tried to repair our marriage but there is only so much one can forgive. Horrible things were said; words that cannot be taken back. Try as we might, things will never be forgotten. Hurtful words, although no longer spoken, are etched into our hearts and minds forever.
Just before I found out that I had bipolar disorder I went through, what I now know to be, a major manic phase. This part of the disorder can be positive, negative or a mixture of both. You can either exhibit over the top joy and happiness or irritability and anger. During that specific time of my life I was a monster. I turned into a unreasonable bitch and almost destroyed our marriage.
I am not the person that I was during that major manic phase. Even so, the experience has changed my life forever. I will never be the same person that I was before my lapse in judgment.
Soon after my diagnosis, I started a year of experimenting with medication. I believe that my psychiatrist and I found an acceptable mix and level of drugs to help manage my moods, at least I hope. It is not uncommon to take many years to obtain the right chemical cocktail that works for each specific individual.
My medication has made me a totally different person from my former self. My moods have been stabilized within acceptable parameters. I no longer swing between the deep depths of depression nor the intense highs of mania. I am forever changed.
I feel as if the spark that made me special has gone away. There was a certain part of my craziness that my husband found endearing. The fun, spontaneous and impulsive part of me has disappeared. I think my husband mourns the loss of those aspects of my life.
When I ask my husband if he still loves me the way I am, I can see sadness in his eyes. I am not the person he married. He tries to reassure me that he'll love me no matter what.
I am afraid that one day he will decide that he does not like me because I have changed. I fear that his reason will be that I am not the person with whom he fell in love. I wonder if my husband will leave me because he does not like the person who I have become.
I have spent countless hours wracking my brain trying to figure out why my son would feel desperate enough to end his life. In the midst of my grief over losing my son Jonathan to suicide, I have been told many hurtful things. One of the worst things that I have heard is that my son's suicide is my fault.
According to a someone on my husband's side of the family, I did something during my pregnancy that caused my son to have autism. My son has had many difficulties in life because of his mental disability. This person feels that if my son was not mentally challenged his life would have been easier, therefore, he would not have had the desire to end his life.
It has been suggested that the way I raised my son is wrong. Not only have I been described as a failure of a mother, several scenarios of my shortcomings that never crossed my mind were voiced. This person does not put blame on my husband, only me.
She knows that I have a mental illness. I have been told that she is not scared that I have bipolar disorder, she wants to punch me in the face. This person does not even know me. I met her once for a brief moment many years ago.
Even though she does not have any tangible reason to blame me for my son's death, it still hurts my already fragile heart to hear such awful things.
