RealMental

Ami asks: I have been bipolar since the mid 80’s, probably before that.  At the age of 46, I started taking medication for it.  Before meds, I guess you could call it ‘what a long, strange trip it’s been’. 

My question is this:  What about cognitive dysfunction?  Why doesn’t the side effect sheet say point blank “If you take this medication, your memory will go south to retire”?  “You will not be able to think straight” is another one I can think of.  If I had known my memory and mind would have fallen apart like it has, I sure would have done things differently. 

The only mood stabilizer I’ve ever been able to tolerate is Lamictal.  Now my liver is acting up, and I have to go back soon for more blood-work, nothing conclusive yet.  I took antidepressants for four years now. 

My quality of life is suffering, along with everything
else since I started meds. 

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Question from Erika: How do therapists/shrinks tell if a patient is lying to them, and how do they deal with it, in terms of getting the patient the immediate care they need, as well as in terms of fostering the honesty necessary to the patient’s real long term healing?
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I’m a counselor. A Licensed Clinical Social Worker, to be exact. That means I’ve gone to four years of college, two years of graduate school, and learned to the limits of my ability the best our science has to offer about how to help people be mentally healthy. It also means that I’ve worked under a seasoned professional for two years and proven myself worthy to be able to give others therapy.

But what it DOESN’T mean is that when a precious and complicated human being (and each human being is incredibly precious and incredibly complicated) comes to visit me that I know what is best for her, in her complicated life, right now. That’s why I don’t really like to call myself a counselor. I don’t like giving counsel, or advice, very much. I might offer a few things to think about, or even give some suggestions. I might give some homework of a skill to try or a book to read, but I’ll really try hard not to take control or tell her how to live her life (unless she’s a danger to someone).

So let’s not call me a counselor. And let’s not call me a therapist either. That word is easily broken into two words that cause many people to feel apprehension when their mental state is already compromised. And psychotherapist is just that much worse. Probably the best name for me is a mental health provider, but that’s way too long to say very often, and it also makes it sound like I’ve got some mental health that I can pull out of the air and provide for you. Which is stretching the truth by a lot. Have you noticed that I’m a mental health provider who has a professional identity problem? I don’t even know what to call myself.

Maybe this is a good time to mention that I’m just a person. With problems. My mental health provider colleagues and I are people, believe it or not, and have our own issues, hang-ups, and mental health problems. Just like every doctor gets sick sometimes, every mental health provider has days when his or her mental health is compromised. We also have ongoing, long-term issues that we struggle with over time. That’s part of being a person. On the other hand, we have some good training and we tend to have a real desire to be helpful. So if you find yourself in my office, I hope you’ll share as honestly as you can what is happening in your world, and let me share your world and your burden. And if I have a suggestion, I hope you’ll listen carefully–with a grain of salt. You hold (and should hold) the steering wheel of your life in your hands. Let me ride shotgun.

From the editor – If you have any questions for Mr. C., feel free to submit them to leah (at) leahpeah (dot) com.