Welcome To The Bitchery
Welcome To The Bitchery

FYI I have no idea why it switches to columns at one point :/....

Note: This is about mental illness (probably PTSD*) and medical trauma. I actually speak in my nasty rage voice and kinda go through most of my phases of illness. This is stream of consciousness of what goes through my head during an episode.

Possible triggers include: rage, suicidal thoughts, grief, despair, medical descriptions, gynaecology, surgery, menstruation, fertility

During the summer I made the choice to come off wellbutrin. I had a very brief discussion with my therapist about it, which we both in the end completely misunderstood each other.

"I'm thinking about coming off Wellbutrin, but I'm not sure if I should."

"I think you can come off any time you like, you can stop right now."

"okay. Like just stop taking it?"

"Yes, if you want too."


So I stopped.

Come back next week.

"Sooo I stopped my medication."


"We talked about it last week and you said I could stop any time. When we first started it you said that it would be out of my system in two days, and that getting off it wouldn't be a problem."


"Well... I did say that... This is my bad...normally there's a tapering off period you're on the 150, .....mumble...you should be fine."

Fast forward 2 weeks.

I'm actually pissed about it now. It seems like any time I ask what I think is a direct question, no one understands what I am asking. I took the answer as a serious answer to a serious question. I made the false assumption that asking the damn question would get me the information I needed. I should have ended the "Okay" with "Okay then I am stopping now." It pisses me off that I waste my time asking a question that is important and I only get half the answer. I'm not asking because I am partially curious, I am asking because that is what I am going to do.

It's always my fault because I can't ask a question in a way that is understandable. Because I should have, should have, should have. Actually, maybe the other side SHOULD HAVE listened.

I'm annoyed because this is a pattern. I ask questions like:


Five months before surgery

"How long will I be off work?"

Doctor "Oh most patients are out that evening and back at work on Monday"

Three months before surgery


"Are you sure this is a day procedure?"

Doctor "Yes, most people are fine in a few days."

A Week before surgery.

Nurse "Ummm No, that's a 2 night stay, and you should take 2-6 weeks off."


WHAT DO I DO WRONG??????????

It's so frustrating. I realize the volume is high on my feelings, but I am so so angry that I can't even get the answer to a straight forward question. When I can't get the answer I get frustrated. Then I get upset because it triggers all the medical nonsense I've been through involving not getting answers and getting wrong things done to me. Which are of course, all my fault because it's always the patient's fault. It has nothing to do with lying to to my face and saying things like:

"Oh you are getting a Transvaginal ultrasound."

"So I am getting a transvaginal us?"


(I ask 2 more times and yes I am getting a TVUS)

Doctor proceeds to perform a sonohysterogram.

It says slowly fill the uterus with saline, that's bullshit, it's basically blast it in there and then proceed to jam the probe in that cunt as hard as you can to create a blackout painful experience. What about that advil? Ya, no one mentioned that at all. Or in fact anything, because they ran out of the room when I started talking. I of course pretended calm and polite because I am Canadian to a fault and god forbid I be impolite about anything.

A Transvaginal US and a sonohysterogram are not the same. Not at all. And it left me in constant pain for 8 months, gave me a 26 day period which of course was entirely in my head because I am hysterical crazy person and that can't happen. I was also loosing 1000 mL blood to the wonderful combination of iron infusions, fibroids, the sonohysterogram and thin blood. I wore a diva cup and an adult diaper to sleep for 4 hours. I could bleed through a overnight pad and a diva cup together, in 1 hour and 20 minutes. For 2 days blood basically poured out of me.

"How much blood should I be loosing?"


"Trust me you'll know."

"I don't know, tell me."

"Trust me, you'll know."

"I don't. Tell me."

"You'll know."

"I loose about 600-1000 mL in 26 days. It use to be 37omL in 10."


"Can you tell me that in tampons and pads?"

"I use a diva cup, it got too expensive to use pads and tampons. The diva cup holds 20mL and I go to the bathroom about every 40 minutes on day two and three."

"No you can't loose that much, you don't look anaemic."

But I must be lying. Or once again, I didn't say the right things because I am a stupid cunt. When I complain about it the excessive blood loss or the constant pain the sonohysterogram put me in, the resident rolls her eyes at me, and the doctor quickly changes the subject and blames it on my condition, which I was not in constant pain until the sonohysterogram. Which only after 10 months the doctor finally admitted, that yes it could cause constant cramping and we could have given me a shot for it. But they didn't because, why on earth would they believe me?

Oh of course, because for some women this is a delightful experience, it means my bad experience is non-existent, because it can't fucking happen that someone else could possibly be different. No, that's no possible. I must have said the wrong thing. I must be too sensitive. I must be a liar. It my stupid cunty-ness or my need to be special.

Then I start reliving all my trauma, and I try to calm myself down, but my head is screaming. And I have the pleasure of going through all my medical appointments.


I jump to post op, where I am crying because I am in so much pain. I can't articulate that morphine doesn't really work on me, because I assume I'm suppose to be in a lot of pain. I did warn them my blood is super thin and that anaesthesia doesn't always work on my family. They tell me I should have told them earlier about the thin blood, I wrote it on the form months ago.

I keep pressing that damn button and it does shit but make my vision weird. They tell me to stop pressing it, and I tell them I'm still an 8.7 out of 10 on the pain scale. They tell me that's impossible. My heart races, and they tell me they need me to calm down. I tell them I am in a lot of pain, but I also have PTSD like symptoms. They tell me it's anxiety, and I shout between sobs: "It's not anxiety, I don't have anxiety, I'm not terrified or sobbing when I'm anxious." I keep sobbing and hyperventilating, they give me ativan, it does nothing but make my face numb.

Illustration for article titled A minute, an hour, a day, a year, all in a moment. On being mentally ill.

And all of the re-living because I asked a fucking question at work. No one listened and didn't bother answering it correctly. Which is silly that it upsets me, but it reminds me of years of asking and getting the wrong answer and the wrong answer causing me horrible pain.

Not answering a question that I ask is a trigger. I discovered that today.
We can add that to door slamming, loud noises, talking over me, saying 'trust me', certain shades of mint green, putting fabric over my face, bright lights in my face, the sound of metal on metal, mentioning trips to the doctor, etc.

I'm fucking pissed off that I am incapable of communicating with people in a way that is remotely understandable. It days like this when I think I should just stop talking, because what is the point? No one listens, no one will answer in a way that is useful. None of the words that come out of my mouth sense. I'm sure what I am writing is barely intelligible. My words get twisted and then they try to make me feel shame.

And my mind goes darker and darker.

Your therapist doesn't even listen to you? Why risk being hurt again? All those doctor types are monsters. Just end it. Finish what they started, they killed your soul, but didn't have the kindness to kill your body. You are nothing but a horrible soulless monster. Everyone knows it, that you are not a person any more. Try to hide it all you can, but you are a monster.


Some days I really wish they had finished it. Some days I imagine myself yelling at all the medical professionals asking "WHY DIDN'T YOU FINISH IT? FINISH IT! FINISH IT!" Why didn't you just kill me? You took away everything. My ability to read. My memory. My focus. You made me emotionally unstable. I live in a constant hell of remembering this over and over. I grieve the person I was. I'm an academic and you took a way my mind to preserve an organ I didn't want. I didn't want a baby. I know, shocker, a woman that DOESN'T WANT A BABY!! Oh, and even if I did sex is painful for me, even masturbating is painful, and we all know that's an eye rolling subject too because last time I mentioned it got me a smirk and a giggle. I guess I'm not to enjoy that any more or ever again. And it's not like I can go back to the doctor because I basically start shaking and sobbing because I know they are gonna laugh at me and hurt me. I'm basically fucked.

Everyone will tell me about their wonderful gynaecologist or how I should go to planned parenthood. Maybe there's magical sensitive doctors that deal with people like me. Or that if I bring a friend it will help! Ya, my 'understanding boyfriend' left me because he was too scared of me like this, admittedly I only date complete assholes. It will make no difference. All doctors are a threat to me. I'd rather kill myself then let another one of those fuckers touch and humiliate me. And in several years, when I can't take the pain I probably will have to make that choice. For now, I won't dare trying because what if I end up in a hospital? No, no I'm not doing that. I won't risk hurting myself to end up in that hell. I won't try. It's too much of a risk. I'd rather suffer then risk putting myself in a doctor's hands. It's 2012...

Then I realize, I am probably having a bad day. I'm being triggered which is making all of my senses go haywire and if I can just put things into perspective again, it will be okay. It's probably a bit of withdrawal. A bit of bodily pain, which always triggers whatever is wrong with my brain. I learned something new, that improperly answered questions triggers me. I can't change the past. I can't know why they messed up so bad. It's not my fault. I did the best I could with what I had. Don't be embarrassed. I've made progress. Take it slow. Be patient with yourself. Be kind to yourself. I'm strong, even though I don't believe it all the time.

Not all doctors are bad, my haematologist was kind and helpful. My family doctor is compassionate and understanding. The nurses in IV therapy were warm and funny. My therapist has helped me a lot. They made me feel safe.

I'm stressed, I'm tired. It's not happening. It's August 2014. I'm 29 years old.

I only have another 6 months until the program they assigned me to starts.

Illustration for article titled A minute, an hour, a day, a year, all in a moment. On being mentally ill.

It's August 29 2014. It's August 29 2014.


I've made it through hell, I can do this for a few more months.

Just Breathe.

I can do this. (even though sometimes it feels like I can't)


It is Friday August 29th 2014. I' m 32 years old.


*I say probably PTSD becaus e even though I've had a psych evaluation at a hospital no one has actually labelled me other than saying "you have a history of abuse and are a self harmer and we are concerned about you." It's 1 year and 2 months and I'm still waiting on clarification on those words. Hopefully, when I get into the program someone will explain that to me. And yes, that was a hell of a sentence to drop on someone.

(screenshots from The Iron Giant, Hannibal)

Share This Story

Get our newsletter