The Medical Field Hates You

In the fall of 2021 I did something I would live to regret. After working for thirty days straight, no breaks, eight hours a day I was understandably exhausted and stuck in the delusion that I had no choice but this life. Obviously, this is not true. Though at the time I saw no way out aside from an attempt on my life.

While recovering in the hospital I suffered from Cotards and Capgrass Syndrome, the first being a condition where the subject believes they are dead and the second being a mental delusion in which the subject believes their loved ones have been replaced by imposters. As anyone who struggles with mental health knows, people in the medical feild do not often care for thier patients.

Despite being in critical condition, the common solution for my problems often was just being put on Adavant. Or Xanax. Any narcotic would do. What I needed at the time was an explanation or at least denial of my delusions. As I often do. The fear of an oncoming stroke or seizure was driving me insane. To the point where I willingly stopped breathing, having decided that I no longer needed to. This habit still effects me now, a little over half a year later, my body comforted by the idea of absentmindedly holding my breath. Thinking that breathing is a choice. This is how Cotards Syndrome has effected my life.

Capgrass Syndrome was more prominent in the hospital. Once the medication subsided I was less vulnerable to the idea of it, no longer hallucinating and able to stay awake without assistance.

When I was under their supervison I was purposefully led to believe that I would be able to go home after I was cleared and no longer a fall risk. The family member taking care of me was also led to believe this. Later in the day I would be told that if I refused to take part in their inpatient program I would be arrested and the police would be called. Within this program I would be slut shamed, my eating disorder would be encouraged, and I would be put on a medication that endangered me of lamictal rash, when I have a history of life threatening skin conditions.

I have never been taken seriously by a doctor. Being a gay teenager who was born a woman. And I live my life knowing that my medical care will never be to the extent it should be because of this.

After this expirience I was moved to an outpatient program, one that I was told wouldn't last longer than a month and one that kept me for four months. While there my case would go through several different therapists, most of them being new hires or people on their two weeks. While there I would only be asked things about my identity in front of my mother, someone I am not comfortable being out to. I was forced to do a lot of lying just to keep myself safe in my home life.

I didn't participate in thier group programs much, mainly becuase I was often working with older fathers victim of divorce who would belittle me when I spoke about the failing relationship I have with my own father. The therapists were pretentious, often just telling me they were waiting for me to quit the program. I often had to reset boundaries, not with other patients but once again with the therapists. When I eventually was able to graduate I still was no taken seriously had spent the rest of the day after program recovering from how exhausting it had been.

The lady who was supposed to set me up with an outpatient therapist didn't actually look into things at all, and simply did whatever was quickest for her. I have been in group programs before and have had several therapists and a psychiatrist throughout the years, never have I had to deal with someone who just didn't care.

My new therapist recommends I reach out to suicide hotlines or The Trevor Project, knowing that the people who runs though also have no sense of customer service or hospitality. Despite actively trying to normalize therapy in this day in age, it is still impossible to find actual good help.