Anna the Embed: How I Got Diagnosed with Narcissism (Part II)


            The only reason for giving someone a diagnosis is in order to treat.  If you’re not going to treat, then it’s just name-calling.  Generally speaking, I refuse the diagnosis of borderline personality disorder but I will accept it if it will get me some “treatment” that I find useful.  DBT is useful.  The format is half academic classroom and half group therapy, and I took the course five or six years ago.  Unfortunately, that was a long time ago and I was heavily drugged, so I don’t remember much and have been trying to get into another course for review, which brings us back to Anna the Embed.

            Our first interview went very nicely and I was pleased with her.  We did my history, which meant I got to talk about myself a lot, so of course I was pleased with her.  Today I thought we were meeting to consider the possibility that we might work well together in her DBT group, but it turns out we are meeting for her to judge whether I am acceptable in her group.  There’s a significant difference.

            The Embed starts by telling me that the two commonalities of people in the group—aside from being female—are an unusual level of sensitivity and being invalidated from childhood on.  The sensitivity, she says, oftentimes exists from birth and may have a biologic origin.  You bet your sweet bippy, I think to myself.  My mom would send my sisters and me out in rotation to sweep the sidewalk.  I’d get blisters and they wouldn’t—that’s biologic sensitivity existing from birth.

            There is a brand-spanking-new field of medicine called psychoneuroimmunoendocrinology (PNIE).  It is about the interplay between the four systems of psychology, neurology, immunology and endocrinology:  sugar hits the exposed nerve in a tooth (neuro) that results in a burst of adrenalin (endo) that causes tearfulness (psycho).  The seminal research on PNIE was done twenty years ago and ninety miles away in Rochester, New York, by three smart guys.  The top guy was smart enough that he is now living in sunny California instead of snowy New York.  Of the remaining two, one is an academic and the other doesn’t do clinical work.  I’ve followed their research and wonder if the Embed has, but figure it wouldn’t be politic for the patient to ask the professor.  If I know something she doesn’t, it will antagonize her.

            The Embed goes on to talk about ways in which hypersensitive people are invalidated.  We are told, for example, that we are not feeling what we are feeling, and do not need what we do need.  For example, children who will later be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder may be told, “You’re not really depressed—now, put your shoes on and go out and play.”  Or, for another example, as recently as three weeks ago a therapist told me that I wasn’t unbearably uncomfortable in an 80-degree room—after all, everybody else was bearing it, so obviously I could, too, right?  Validation is one of the most important concepts of DBT:  the way you feel is the way you feel and no one has the right to tell you otherwise.  Your world-perception is to be validated.

In the first five minutes of our meeting, the Embed tells me to stop externalizing, which comes as a rude shock to me.  Externalizing is about the locus of focus.  Contemporary America is all about I:  we have magazines called I, Me and Self.  We do not have magazines called You, Them or Others.  The psychiatric system believes that if there is a problem between you and the world you live in, you fix it by changing yourself.  The essential premise of psychiatry in America is that the patient is wrong.  How do you get to be a patient?  By calling a doctor’s office and asking for an appointment.

            Psychiatry rejects the possibility that what needs to be changed is the world in which the patient lives.  The Embed points out that there aren’t any people in my life who drop in at my home to say “Hi.”

            I ask her if there are such people in her life.

            She says she’s not comfortable answering that.  This is a basic tenet of all people who work in psychiatry:  hide.  Spend as much time as you like telling the patient what she’s doing wrong and why her life isn’t working, but never admit that your life doesn’t work either.  In short, we will make reference to the patient being overweight but we will not comment on the therapist being underweight—or schizophrenic.  I had a schizophrenic psychiatric resident once; it was not a pretty sight.

            I’d be willing to put money on the fact that the Embed doesn’t have anyone drop in at her home to say “Hi” either, but she has obviated the necessity for that by spending long hours in study and work, and becoming a Doctor of Philosophy and Clinical Assistant Professor.  If you’re never at home, you don’t notice that no one comes to visit you there.  I’m always at home and I notice.

            I point out the following to the Embed: 

  • Most people are connected to society by their families.  My fiancé died, falling to earth under a closed parachute, therefore I never had a husband or children:  absence of connection, part I. 
  • Many people are connected through their place of work.  Ever since a doctor poisoned me twelve years ago, I have been unable to work:  absence of connection, part II. 
  • All people are connected by their ability to travel to where other people are.  I have been in and out of a wheelchair and unable to drive for three years:  absence of connection, part III.  (To be continued)
Advertisements

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
This entry was posted in depression, doctor, Hutchings Psychiatric Center, mental health, mental illness, patient, physician, psychiatric patient, psychiatrist, psychiatry, Upstate Medical Center and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s