Group Therapy Was…Awkward

I finally gathered up enough courage to go to a group therapy session yesterday. It was quite a nerve-racking experience. As I sat waiting for the session to start, a couple of the patients kept trying to have a conversation with me. They were way too friendly. I wondered if happy pills were the culprit. All I could offer were one word replies. I’m a bit socially awkward and it takes me a while to warm up to people—especially strangers that seemed a little too happy for happiness sake.

When I didn’t answer a question to their liking, they would ask the nurse about me. I guess they were just curious but it made me feel uneasy. I told them that I wasn’t much of a talker. They didn’t seem too thrilled with the response. It was quite intimidating.

The dreaded moment came. I had to introduce myself. I was the center of attention. I hate being the center of attention. I only said my first name. There was a long awkward pause. Maybe they were expecting my life story or a musical number. The participant in turn introduced themselves to me.

This session’s topic was about anger management. The moderator read several pages about the topic from a handout that she probably downloaded online. It was quite boring as she breezed through each page. She read about the different types of anger, dos and don’ts and coping techniques. She also passed out a handout which she also read aloud. I felt like I was in grade school. A part of intelligence felt a little insulted. This was for the birds—those cuckoo birds. I felt too big for this nest.

The Q&A session rolled around and the moderator honed in on me. She asked if I had any questions. I told her that I didn’t have any questions. She asked if I had anything to share on the topic at hand. Of course I had several stories about anger. I could have shared that I suppress anger it like it’s going out of style. Or about how passive aggressive I am and don’t say how I truly feel. Or that I let my anger boil over and spill into other parts of my life. Or how I resent people for days, months and years on end but I declined to share that. I feared that I could get emotional and the walls I’ve built to protect me from flood damage would collapse.

She also asked if I would come again on Thursday. “Hopefully,” I awkwardly replied. “Hopefully.”

In The Land of Zombies & Scaredy Cats

I went to my doctor’s appointment last week. I hate confronting anything—especially this. It’s one of those things that I know needs to be addressed but a part of me wants to avoid eye contact with it. I noticed that I was the youngest patient in the waiting room. My mind began to wonder about the older patients. Was this my future? Going to psych appointments in my 50s? Living with bipolar disorder as a 33-year-old is challenging enough. Could I stretch this 33 more years?

I never thought that I would have made it to 30. As a teen, I vowed to end my misery before I reached adulthood. I always thought that I would have committed suicide by now. I know that sounds morbid but when you’re living with a mental disorder, it feels quite the opposite. It feels like a source of peace. After a couple of failed attempts in my teens, I decided that I wasn’t really good at it. Plus being a scaredy cat and a people pleaser aren’t adequate ingredients for a suicider. (I doubt that’s an actual word.) And besides, life isn’t unbearable all the time. I tell myself, “Just one more day” whenever I’m feeling very close to the edge.

I would say that guilt and obligation keeps me here for the most part. I have an older brother that my mother has been caring for. She had to modify her life and end her career in order to devote her time to him. It takes a very strong and selfless person to do what she does on a daily basis. I admire her for that. I have to let her know that one day.

I’ll most likely take over the reins if she becomes incapacitated or passes away. She said that she doesn’t want my brother to be a burden to us (or our potential mates) but I can’t bear the thought of him going to a home. He is unable to talk, has epilepsy and is mentally disabled. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone if he was being mistreated. The mere thought of this reduces me to tears every time.

Wow. I have totally drifted away from the subject at hand—my doctor’s appointment. The doctor assessed my condition and prescribed me Abilify and Prozac. He told me to take them on the regular basis or risked being hospitalized. He also suggested group therapy. I held back tears as he talked and couldn’t wait to get out of his office. I had such high hopes for my appointment but I felt the resistance and fear building up inside of me.

After a few days of taking my meds, I stopped. I felt numb and spacey. I call it the zombie effect. Even though the thought of therapy scared me, I made the decision to go to a session. I figured that it may help me to see the importance of taking medication.

My first therapy session was this morning. I arrived on time but the nurse said that once a certain number of people arrived, the session would begin. I took a seat in the waiting area. After 20 minutes, fear began to set in. The “what ifs” stifled me. My throat felt tight. I  hyperventilated silently and left the premises. The thought of sharing and being vulnerable in front of others scared me. It’s not the same as blogging.

They called my cell about 15 minutes later. I ignored the call.

I know that I have to give the meds another try. I know that I have stay for a session. I know. I know. I know. Sigh.