đ§ Listen to Sarah read this installment of Cured:
Dr. R and I sit in our respective armchairs. Out the window, the clouds hang low. His pants have less of a sheen than usual.
He was the only clinician who was honest with me about my psychiatric diagnosis. My other clinicians leveled the six diagnoses I received (over twenty-five years) with such certainty, telling me or leading me to believe they were biological, caused by a chemical imbalance, and unquestionably lifelongânone of which are true. Dr. R admitted he didnât know what was wrong with me or which diagnosis to use. Any diagnosis would do as long as it got me the best treatment.
Dr. R is also the one who told me about a patient of his who recovered from schizoaffective disorder. Heâs made me want to try to get well, even though I donât really believe mental health recovery is possible, not for a âhopelessâ case like me.
The other problem is that I donât know what Iâm recovering from. He hasnât revealed the label/diagnosis heâs chosen to categorize the mental illness he doesnât know Iâm trying to recover from, and I donât want to know.
Over the years, I made each diagnosis my identity. Each was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I identified so strongly with it that I came to embody it. With the depression diagnosis, I saw myself as a depressed person. The anxiety diagnosis made me more anxious. With the ADHD diagnosis came the belief that I was simply someone who was easily distracted and had trouble paying attention. The OCD diagnosis made me pay greater attention to my obsessions and compulsions. As someone with bipolar disorder, I saw even the slightest surge of energy or period of low mood as evidence of my illness. It seems that if I want to heal, itâs best not to do that again.
But I canât recover from an unnamed illness, so I ask about my diagnosis. I sit up straighter in my armchair, crossing my legs at the ankles.
He says, âI thought it was bipolar disorder, but now Iâm thinkingââ
I hold up my hand and tell him I donât want to know. My eyes tear up. The office feels stuffy. Dr. Râs desk seems cluttered, insofar as his desk could ever be cluttered.
Dr. R jerks his head back in what looks like surprise. âMost people really want to knowââ
Just so long as I get treatment, I say. Otherwise, I donât.
Out the window, the clouds look greyer but also less threatening. Iâve spent so many years seeing myself as this or that diagnosis. If I continue to do that, Iâll never recover.
âIt can be helpful,â he says. âNavigating.â
I shake my head. Iâm on a different path now.
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