I'm Not Paranoid, You're Paranoid
The voicemail I've never listened to, yet that's followed me even as I switched carriers, I've only ever partially read. It's that mostly unhelpful feature that transcribes a voicemail to see if you'd like to listen to it or not bother. The voicemail is from April 22, 2019, and I haven't bothered, no, but I still haven't erased it, either.
My last post left off as a new patient at a wellness center. This covers a lot of things, I suppose. I only cared that it specialized in treating all aspects of my car accident in August of 2018. There had to be a place to start, though, which was a ton of testing. I apparently referenced it in that last post around February 5. It sounded fairly optimistic, my initial impression. Yes, I even go into the horrors of finding out about those broken links in my brain. I'd tried to schedule testings once a week or every other week. They were exhausting. As I'd mused to a friend, they must be purposely designed to cause neurofatigue. I, too, was interested in how well I was functioning under this rigorous testing.
I'd a bit embarrassed now to rehash every area of testing. I've mentioned discovering I couldn't count down from a relatively low number. Also, I discovered not only could I not multiply, I could not comprehend how multiplication worked. This is a somewhat optimistic story. I had to leave the entire page of multiplication blank. I was advised to at least try. The information simply was not there, nor was there any concept of the how or why. That night, I shot awake. "My gosh! Three times three is six!" And, satisfied, I fell back asleep. I awoke with the same start that morning. "No, it's three threes. So three plus three plus three, equalling nine." Overnight, my brain had worked to recreate the lost information. The memorization seems to have come back over weeks without effort, but the comprehension of having to figure out how multiplication worked was humbling, yet also exciting. It was the third grade all over again. Yipee. Don't even ask about division. You'd be surprised how little we, or I, use division in daily life, but I seem to understand the concept.
This sounds jarring and hopeful. And these tests. Not the bore. It depended. Audio. Visual. Recognition. Memory. Sometimes I'd be shown a simple photo, say of a house with detail, and be asked to recreate it from memory. That didn't go so well. I did better on random things. I'd be told a story and asked to repeat all the details I remembered. That skill was on overdrive, so that did help my confidence.
It was months of testing, so I was nervous about meeting with the overseeing doctor who I'd initially met. Technicians always tested me. I was worried about the results. Sick over them. But I was anxious for all the wrong reasons.
I think we dived right into it. Yes, there was the actual missing information and what that revealed about the injuries I'd sustained. But, most importantly, let's discuss the psychological tests I'd been put under. Excuse me, say again?
I remember my doctor saying, "I like you. You don't complain about things. Not at all. But underneath, you're seething with rage, even over the smallest of things."
And a few of these "smallest of things" were detailed. I remembered them, but they seemed so inconsequential. They were subfiled under the entire meeting of specific testing, but I remembered them.
For instance, I was once intentionally kept waiting 15 minutes before my appointment in the office waiting room. Then I was suddenly admitted, without explanation nor apology. Neither did I say anything. In fact, every detail was remarked. My appearance, my composure, and what I'd regarded as chitchat. I was polite. No, I was gregarious. Charming. And that was the alarming note because, unwittingly, I'd be subjected to a scantron at some point, defenses down. And, well, these were a lot of questions, and I was so used to running through variations of them during different period of my visits. And then something "small" would happen, a 15-minute wait, I would at first unintentionally try to deceive the scantron, but it was simply so long, that eventually I'd start to unconsciously get very honest. And I was pissed, my results noted. Super pissed.
Another example was that I was taking an auditory test. I had a few minutes to go, as the timer clocked down, when the technician suddenly walked in and stood over my shoulder, very close to me. What, scantron time after some polite conversation? Sure! All the while, never knowing I was blowing that thing up. I was not irritated over these psychological intrusions, even though I didn't recognize them at the time. I wasn't angry, even. I was seething. And yet, in the notes, my demeanor was friendly. And that's a bit what he admired, the overseeing doctor. To not complain, to maintain composure, but what through-the-charts rage. This, though? Made me feel like a complete sociopath.
There were some other notes. Anything "off" I'd said, because I person will at some point let their guard down, and those telling scantron results. Some of those results, it was somewhat left to me. I'd felt I'd gotten a bum deal, according to these tests, and I had to agree. Who feels they've gotten a fair shake after an auto accident, especially if it wasn't their fault? Except this was interesting. It'd been quite a while. Some people worked their way out of this thinking, that fate or fortune, the universe or God, had it out for them. And some people did not and should consider an antidepressant or another sort of pharmacotherapy. This was left up to me. Would I work my way out of this line of thinking? That I was genuinely marked for misfortune? I'll tell you I wanted the time with this new information to try to process it on my own. Or just have more time to see if that impresion would somehow soften. But I've done both, mused and attempted two antidepressants, both without results. The idea that it was up to me to choose was because I was borderline. My doctor said, "I absolutely agree that you did not get a fair deal that day, but neither is everyone and everything out to get you. And you're dangerously close to believing that about everything."
There was a laundry list of problem areas, but what almost made me laugh out loud, if I weren't both petrified and enraged. One of the big highlighted areas was paranoia.
Let's straight up treat this as if I'm starting out middle school essay. What's the definition of paranoia? Paranoia is defined as a mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others, sometimes progressing to disturbances of consciousness and aggressive acts believed to be performed in self-defense or as a mission. Also, baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others.
Let's focus especially on the baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others, especially "baseless" or "excessive." What the actual hell are you when you are put to psychological testing without your knowledge? I'm not paranoid. I've just learned that all my fears are absolutely true. I'm not paranoid, I'm right.
I went over as many of the details as I could with my good friend, Neesh. I was extremely disturbed by my lack of consent, and she agreed that it felt like a betrayal. But then she asked me, "Had you known...would you have been more careful and answered differently?" And I responded, "Fuck yeah." She then asked, "Do you wish you had known?" And I surprised myself by responding, that no, I was glad I hadn't known. I really needed to know that baseline, actually, no matter how much I resented it.
While I'm glad for what all the testing revealed, that was my last appointment at the clinic. There was a follow-up call made, as I'd mentioned, that wanted to work on a lot of occupational therapy. That is, things like the my difficulty in processing, say, in a noisy room, what is important information and what is not. Our brains do this automatically, which is amazing. Or, your brain does; mine does not. It's like switching from an automatic transmission to a manual. Things like that take conscious thought. I've been told therapy to help with this, and I can't begin to tell you how much it would help me in my job and even with relationships. A dinner out can be excruciating, as my brain struggles to understand what conversation I'm a part of, that the drapes are unimportant, to place a simple order without distraction. It's that bizzare? Yes, that, among other things, would not only be a help, it would be an enormous relief.
But is it just occupational therapy? Is it really? Thanks for cementing in my brain that I have every scary right to "feel" paranoid, dammit. And so, months later, that call goes unanswered for the occupational therapy that really might change so much.
My last post left off as a new patient at a wellness center. This covers a lot of things, I suppose. I only cared that it specialized in treating all aspects of my car accident in August of 2018. There had to be a place to start, though, which was a ton of testing. I apparently referenced it in that last post around February 5. It sounded fairly optimistic, my initial impression. Yes, I even go into the horrors of finding out about those broken links in my brain. I'd tried to schedule testings once a week or every other week. They were exhausting. As I'd mused to a friend, they must be purposely designed to cause neurofatigue. I, too, was interested in how well I was functioning under this rigorous testing.
I'd a bit embarrassed now to rehash every area of testing. I've mentioned discovering I couldn't count down from a relatively low number. Also, I discovered not only could I not multiply, I could not comprehend how multiplication worked. This is a somewhat optimistic story. I had to leave the entire page of multiplication blank. I was advised to at least try. The information simply was not there, nor was there any concept of the how or why. That night, I shot awake. "My gosh! Three times three is six!" And, satisfied, I fell back asleep. I awoke with the same start that morning. "No, it's three threes. So three plus three plus three, equalling nine." Overnight, my brain had worked to recreate the lost information. The memorization seems to have come back over weeks without effort, but the comprehension of having to figure out how multiplication worked was humbling, yet also exciting. It was the third grade all over again. Yipee. Don't even ask about division. You'd be surprised how little we, or I, use division in daily life, but I seem to understand the concept.
This sounds jarring and hopeful. And these tests. Not the bore. It depended. Audio. Visual. Recognition. Memory. Sometimes I'd be shown a simple photo, say of a house with detail, and be asked to recreate it from memory. That didn't go so well. I did better on random things. I'd be told a story and asked to repeat all the details I remembered. That skill was on overdrive, so that did help my confidence.
It was months of testing, so I was nervous about meeting with the overseeing doctor who I'd initially met. Technicians always tested me. I was worried about the results. Sick over them. But I was anxious for all the wrong reasons.
I think we dived right into it. Yes, there was the actual missing information and what that revealed about the injuries I'd sustained. But, most importantly, let's discuss the psychological tests I'd been put under. Excuse me, say again?
I remember my doctor saying, "I like you. You don't complain about things. Not at all. But underneath, you're seething with rage, even over the smallest of things."
And a few of these "smallest of things" were detailed. I remembered them, but they seemed so inconsequential. They were subfiled under the entire meeting of specific testing, but I remembered them.
For instance, I was once intentionally kept waiting 15 minutes before my appointment in the office waiting room. Then I was suddenly admitted, without explanation nor apology. Neither did I say anything. In fact, every detail was remarked. My appearance, my composure, and what I'd regarded as chitchat. I was polite. No, I was gregarious. Charming. And that was the alarming note because, unwittingly, I'd be subjected to a scantron at some point, defenses down. And, well, these were a lot of questions, and I was so used to running through variations of them during different period of my visits. And then something "small" would happen, a 15-minute wait, I would at first unintentionally try to deceive the scantron, but it was simply so long, that eventually I'd start to unconsciously get very honest. And I was pissed, my results noted. Super pissed.
Another example was that I was taking an auditory test. I had a few minutes to go, as the timer clocked down, when the technician suddenly walked in and stood over my shoulder, very close to me. What, scantron time after some polite conversation? Sure! All the while, never knowing I was blowing that thing up. I was not irritated over these psychological intrusions, even though I didn't recognize them at the time. I wasn't angry, even. I was seething. And yet, in the notes, my demeanor was friendly. And that's a bit what he admired, the overseeing doctor. To not complain, to maintain composure, but what through-the-charts rage. This, though? Made me feel like a complete sociopath.
There were some other notes. Anything "off" I'd said, because I person will at some point let their guard down, and those telling scantron results. Some of those results, it was somewhat left to me. I'd felt I'd gotten a bum deal, according to these tests, and I had to agree. Who feels they've gotten a fair shake after an auto accident, especially if it wasn't their fault? Except this was interesting. It'd been quite a while. Some people worked their way out of this thinking, that fate or fortune, the universe or God, had it out for them. And some people did not and should consider an antidepressant or another sort of pharmacotherapy. This was left up to me. Would I work my way out of this line of thinking? That I was genuinely marked for misfortune? I'll tell you I wanted the time with this new information to try to process it on my own. Or just have more time to see if that impresion would somehow soften. But I've done both, mused and attempted two antidepressants, both without results. The idea that it was up to me to choose was because I was borderline. My doctor said, "I absolutely agree that you did not get a fair deal that day, but neither is everyone and everything out to get you. And you're dangerously close to believing that about everything."
There was a laundry list of problem areas, but what almost made me laugh out loud, if I weren't both petrified and enraged. One of the big highlighted areas was paranoia.
Let's straight up treat this as if I'm starting out middle school essay. What's the definition of paranoia? Paranoia is defined as a mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others, sometimes progressing to disturbances of consciousness and aggressive acts believed to be performed in self-defense or as a mission. Also, baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others.
Let's focus especially on the baseless or excessive suspicion of the motives of others, especially "baseless" or "excessive." What the actual hell are you when you are put to psychological testing without your knowledge? I'm not paranoid. I've just learned that all my fears are absolutely true. I'm not paranoid, I'm right.
I went over as many of the details as I could with my good friend, Neesh. I was extremely disturbed by my lack of consent, and she agreed that it felt like a betrayal. But then she asked me, "Had you known...would you have been more careful and answered differently?" And I responded, "Fuck yeah." She then asked, "Do you wish you had known?" And I surprised myself by responding, that no, I was glad I hadn't known. I really needed to know that baseline, actually, no matter how much I resented it.
While I'm glad for what all the testing revealed, that was my last appointment at the clinic. There was a follow-up call made, as I'd mentioned, that wanted to work on a lot of occupational therapy. That is, things like the my difficulty in processing, say, in a noisy room, what is important information and what is not. Our brains do this automatically, which is amazing. Or, your brain does; mine does not. It's like switching from an automatic transmission to a manual. Things like that take conscious thought. I've been told therapy to help with this, and I can't begin to tell you how much it would help me in my job and even with relationships. A dinner out can be excruciating, as my brain struggles to understand what conversation I'm a part of, that the drapes are unimportant, to place a simple order without distraction. It's that bizzare? Yes, that, among other things, would not only be a help, it would be an enormous relief.
But is it just occupational therapy? Is it really? Thanks for cementing in my brain that I have every scary right to "feel" paranoid, dammit. And so, months later, that call goes unanswered for the occupational therapy that really might change so much.
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