Chapter 7: Hate at First Sight

The countdown to my visit with the psychiatrist ticked to zero. To say I didn’t want to go meet the man would be an understatement. When I was a child, my mother brought me to one of her sessions, and left the room so I could talk to her psychiatrist, or, rather, so he could talk to me. It was hate at first sight. His eyes were calculating and his gaze sharp, and his body language didn’t match his words, so I didn’t trust him. He kept trying to win my confidence and trick me into revealing my secrets and feelings, kept trying to pry his way into my mind and my business, and I was furious. I refused to go back.

I walked into this new psychiatrist’s office with my heart fluttering like a hummingbird, my nails bitten to the quick. Before I could even get in to see the doctor, his nurse put me through what felt like an interrogation, asking nosy, personal questions that I didn’t want to answer but felt obliged to answer anyway. (I hadn’t yet learned a person can refuse to answer questions posed by authority figures). 

She worked her way through all sorts of private and upsetting subjects, and finally asked a whopper—were you ever sexually abused? Yes. By whom? My father. When? Where? How old? How often? I lost my temper—I’d only begun to figure this out and could barely say the words out loud and didn’t even have all the information yet and she wanted me to rattle off my history like a character in a weekend special. My fierce one-word answers and glares set off her temper as well, which didn’t help the situation, and by the time I was allowed to see the doctor, I was in a foul mood.

People lie, but their bodies don't. With booted feet propped on his desk and both hands behind his head, my new psychiatrist’s pose advertised casual relaxation, but his entire body screamed tension. The man hadn't opened his mouth yet, and already he was lying to me. I hated him on sight.

Poised on the edge of an overstuffed couch like a nervous gazelle at a watering hole, I waited for the ambush. I knew the drill. First he'd chat with me and ask a few disarming questions, and then he'd hit me with a zinger, crafted to trick clients into blurting out private truths.

The new doctor didn’t disappoint. How are you, how about this weather we’re having, hear you're having trouble with depression and possibly PTSD, what are your symptoms, and then--zing--let’s talk about how your father sexually abused you.

 “Let’s not and say we did.” I didn't so much smile as bare my teeth.  Point, set, match.

The psychiatrist sighed and sat up in his chair, easy-going ruse abandoned. He rubbed the back of his neck with a chubby hand. "Child abuse is endemic in Wyoming. When people come in my office, I don't ask them if they were sexually abused as children. I ask them who did it."

I could have done without that little factoid. Knowing I was one of a huge group of injured former children only made me feel sorry for them as well as for myself.

To fill the silence, the doctor told me all about Seasonal Affective Disorder, Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder, Major Depression, and PTSD, all of which he assured me I had. “But good news!” he said. “You’re not Bipolar!”

Possibly this man was broken. “Um, good?” I said, wondering how long this info dump was going to take, and wanting to cut to the chase. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Anti-depressant drugs will help; at least, they will help you with everything except the PTSD. PTSD is an anxiety disorder created by traumatic experiences. It isn’t a chemical imbalance like the others; it’s a wound that results from an injury.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” I dug at the ragged stumps of my fingernails with my other fingernail stumps and wished myself anywhere else.

“When a person's life is endangered by a natural disaster, a combat situation, or a violent crime, the emotions and memories involved can get "stuck" in the brain's processing center,” the shrink explained.   “This causes the person to relive events over and over again, through recurring nightmares, general feelings of anxiety, phobias, flashbacks, and panic attacks.” He looked at me expectantly, like I was supposed to contribute now, so I did.

“Then do I need anti-anxiety drugs, or what? Because I’m still nursing my baby, and I’m not sure that’s safe for him.”

“You might think about weaning that baby.” He glanced at my stubborn expression, read my refusal there, and looked away. “Anti-anxiety drugs can help PTSD, but the traditional treatment includes both prescription drugs and years of intensive therapy.”

I glared at him. “I don’t have time for that. I have three kids, I have a husband, and I have a home business. I can’t fit therapy into my schedule.”

The psychiatrist laughed. “PTSD is like having a baby. You can be smart and help the process along, or you can be stubborn and slow it down, but you can’t stop it.” Catching my wince, he added, “There is a new drug-free treatment available.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s called EMDR.  It could shrink your recovery time from years to months. It helps the brain to heal itself by enhancing connections between the right and left brain,” he said.

Uh-huh. Sounded like black magic to me. Still, my college neurobiology classes had taught me that our current understanding of the biology of the brain was so limited that the only answer for many questions was ‘black magic.’ What does Ringer’s solution do that keeps neural cells alive? It’s black magic. What motivates the mitochondria in our cells to produce the energy that keeps us alive? That’s black magic.  Maybe EMDR was black magic, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work.

The psychiatrist rummaged through a cluttered desk drawer, pulled out a yellow sticky note and a pen, and started scribbling. "I think it would be easier for you to talk to a female therapist. These therapists specialize in PTSD, and they're very good, especially the first two."

He handed me the note, and said, “I can diagnose you with PTSD. I can prescribe anti-anxiety medication if you want. But until you work through the trauma and talk to someone about it, you aren't going to feel any better."

His list of PTSD specialists clutched in my hand, I stood to leave.

"Hey," he said, "You might need to call a few of them before you find someone you can work with. Don't give up, and don't let anyone intimidate you, ok? The truth is, the only difference between us and the crazies is who has the keys."

Ok, maybe I don't hate him after all.