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A Broken System

The Damage of a Failing Mental Healthcare System

By Nicole LarsenPublished 6 years ago 6 min read
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My stomach hurt. I couldn’t force myself to participate in the stupid activity. We were suppose to make a collage that represents our recovery. I flipped through the same magazine several times. My hands were visibly shaking. I was sweating to much. Anything I did would be wrong. I was embarrassed to cut anything out of the magazine and glue it on the paper. It would be stupid. People will laugh. Maybe not out loud, but they would.

Looking back now I know this was manifestation of severe, untreated anxiety. How could the licensed professional running the group not see that. I watched the clock dreading the time to be up, but also not wanting it to end. As we started around the table, everyone sharing their collages, I began to shake more. Not just my hands, but everything. I had to pee and I probably would have thrown up if I had eaten that morning.

When it was my turn my gaze shifted between the blank paper in front of me and the therapist running the group. She sighed and rolled her eyes. I’m not kidding. This women who had chosen helping kids, not just people but kids, with mental illness and addiction as her career rolled her eyes. With an extremely annoyed tone she asked me why I had not participated. I know there were tears in my eyes. I could feel sweat dripping down my back, sticking to my shirt. She continued to stare at me, eyes wide, waiting for a response. I opened my mouth, but quickly realized I didn’t have a response that didn’t involve bursting into tears. I just shook my head. She had to see how much I was shaking or that my shirt was wet with sweat, which was embarrassing in itself.

I think the reason this memory makes me so angry is because I know everyone at the table could see I was struggling even if they didn’t know why. I remember other kids in the group asking if I was okay as we walked back to the day room. I cannot convince myself that this therapist really believed I was just being defiant. I have spent more time then I care to admit trying to understand her reasoning for treating me the way she did.

When I did not have a reasonable response she took it even further. We started back over at the beginning of the circle and she had everyone share how my not participating effected the group. I don’t remember what any of them said. I remember looking at my thighs, and focusing hard on the burning beneath my leggings. I remember singing the lyrics to "A Little Piece of Heaven" in my head. I remember feeling the weight of my body increase as the humiliation spread through me. I remember a brief, but very real feeling of pure self-hatred. Why was I like this? She humiliated me when I was already broken. I was sick. So sick that I was physically afraid to cut some stupid pictures out of magazine and glue them on a piece of paper. It was her job to help me and she kicked me down even farther.

This was not the only time I felt targeted by her in group. Later that same week we were in a different group. The kind where you all just vent a little bit. There was a girl there who was 17. She was only there to be monitored while changing her meds. She didn’t want to share in group because she said she had no reason to be depressed it was just a chemical imbalance. After this girl had shared our therapist went on to talk about how frustrating that can be; not knowing why we are feeling bad. She validated everything this girl had said and even told her it was okay she felt that way.

A few other people shared then it was my turn. I was shaking a little bit and sweating a lot. Anything I say will be stupid. I didn’t want her to think I was being defiant or trying to avoid participation so I really tried. I know I spoke quietly, but I told her I thought my depression was being caused by my anxiety. She asked why I thought I was experiencing so much anxiety. I told her I didn’t know. Because in that moment, living in the life I was living I didn’t know. I was fourteen. I didn’t know the things happening to me were not okay or that the severe anxiety because of them was a normal reaction. She then told me I had to know, because feelings do not just happen without a cause. Remember, a few minutes ago when she said it’s perfectly okay to not know why you are sad? Her demeanor was different with me. She was short with me. Hostile almost. This was not how she spoke to other patients. At least not from what I had seen.

Usually, in group therapies like that cross-talk is not okay unless the person sharing asks for advice. This has been the rule in every hospital, outpatient, inpatient, and support group I have ever been to. After giving her little speech she asked the group if anyone had anything to share. Again, highly unusual and in my opinion unprofessional for that kind of group therapy. One girl decided it was her place to tell me in front of everyone that I was wasting the therapists time.

Looking back now, this girl had been admitted several times and she knew how to play the system and get out fast. The therapist let her go on for five minutes. In those five minutes she said, “You have no idea what it’s like for life to be hard,” “People like you who cut for attention,” and “You don’t pull off your wannabe emo look.” The therapist let her say those things.

The feeling of humiliation has always been very physical for me. I know many people describe emotional pain to be “weighing” down on them, but I’ve always wondered if it’s he same thing I experience. If their bodies feel so heavy they don’t think they can stand. If their muscles tense so much they can’t lift their head. If at the same time that their limbs feel to heavy to lift they feel empty. Not in a metaphorical way, but a very physical hollowness that makes you question your very existence.

I was there to get better. To get help and heal from the painful events that had broken me. This woman should have been my advocate. Instead she humiliated me multiple times. She let other patients say terrible and hurtful things.

This story seems stupid when I read it. After all it was six years ago and nobody except for me remembers it, let alone cares, but it constantly makes an appearance in my flashbacks. Every time I find myself more angry. What did I do to become irrelevant to the whole world, even the people who were suppose to understand?

It makes me so sad to know that our mental healthcare system is so broken. I don’t understand how people who have chosen these jobs cannot care the way they do. My story is hurtful, but I have heard so much worse. Stories of abuse and humiliation from broken people seeking help. How many people are leaving treatment worse than before because of the negligence of the professionals trusted with their care?

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