1. the power or ability to return to the original form, position,etc., after being bent, compressed, or stretched; elasticity.
2. ability to recover readily from illness, depression,adversity, or the like; buoyancy.
Apparently this is a quality I lack, according to my now ex-psychiatrist. Let me explain.
When I cancelled my therapy appointment on Tuesday to spend it with my husband’s family as my brother in law died, my therapist called me to check in. I gave her the quick & dirty, then she cracked a joke “So I see you have an appointment with Dr. Bat tomorrow. Getting in on her last day, huh?”
I did not know that my psychiatrist was leaving MyTherapyInstitute. A bombshell. Yes, I have had my arguments, disagreements & butting of heads with Dr. Bat, but in the past six months, I had to learn to trust her. So I was fairly pissed off at not being notified of her impending departure.
On Wednesday I showed up for my appointment with my jaw set & a crappy attitude. Part petulant teenager, part seething adult. She noted my sarcasm immediately and was dismayed that I had not received the letter that was sent out notifying her patients. I grunted at her in acknowledgement.
We went through my meds & decided, just for kicks, to give one last spin on the Medication Roulette wheel. Wheeeeee! While I gave a rousing “HELL NO” to the Ritalin regime she offered, I did concede to switching out one anti-depressant for another. So it’s still four meds, just a brand new flavor.
While she wrote my scripts, I eyed the clock, noticing I had about 7 minutes left.
“So in ten minutes you’re no longer my shrink”, I stated.
“So tell me, straight out, how I can get better?” I asked. Like I thought she’d been holding out on me these past three years.
She leaned back in her chair & looked me in the eye. After apologizing slightly for not feeling like she was truly able to help me, she laid the word out.
And then she continued, “I have a patient, a woman with MS who is wheelchair bound, who comes through my door smiling every time…”
She prattled on, but I had already tuned her out. I failed at being a good, functioning nutjob. Isn’t that funny?
At one point during the session, she confessed to not really knowing me, or knowing enough about me to truly help me. But I only saw her for 20 minutes at a clip, a few times a year. She only asked about my medications, a few general life questions, and if I had any suicidal thoughts. Like clockwork. It’s my therapists job to “know” me, and my psychiatrist’s job to chemically “right” me. At least that’s how it works at MyTherapyInstitute.
I’m not resilient? I’m alive. I’m breathing. I have a job. I pay my bills. I am in a healthy, stable relationship. I have hobbies and friends. I’m nice to small animals & most children.
I’m not resilient? I’ve lived though rape, choosing adoption for my only child, divorce, miscarriages, deaths of loved ones.
I’m not resilient? I’ve owned a small business (or two), read voraciously & make weird magnets and things.
She handed me my scripts and I stood up. I walked over to her, shook her hand, and wished her luck on her future endeavors. At reception, I was given an appointment for the next month, with the doctor’s space left blank.
I never really saw eye to eye with her anyway.