in or out of therapy?

I have a rage inside me, big enough to make my head spin. I am being mistreated, and honestly, it is far from the first time I have been let down by those who should care for my well-being and health. Asking for help has always been near impossible for me, and this was my first time prioritising my physical and mental health. The concept of asking for help was so new that I kept questioning if I was in the right or overreacting, as I learnt early on in life that others often believe I do. It might seem trivial to one that never had a problem asking for help.

Background story to my rage: In March of 2020, my period was getting out of hand as I had it for over 7 days at the time, and every 20 odd days, I ended up having my period about 18-20 times a year. That is about 130 days of period a year. More than a 3rd of the year. I caved in and got an IUD inserted. Since giving birth by c-section in 2018, I have been living with pain. Within a month, I felt the issues regarding my pelvis, and what I realised later was my pelvic floor tensing increased. Living with pain is normal for me; however, this pain pierced through my life, and I just could not ignore it or in any way help myself get better. Some things soothed the pain a bit, like cold water and yoga.

In the fall of 2020, I reached out for help and was told firstly by the midwife in my town that it would be hard to “get in” to the experts in the larger town an hour away. She reluctantly put me on the waitlist. After a few months, I got a call from the experts at the bigger hospital; that nurse was, if possible, even more rude and hostile, questioning me and my pain. In March 2021, I finally had an appointment with a midwife at the larger hospital; she wanted to start by giving me a physical exam, and as she lightly pressed on the left side of my pelvic floor, my tears began spraying out of my eyes as they do in cartoons and even if my threshold for pain is absurdly high I could not keep the scream in. Not since childbirth have I felt pain like that? She realised there was no point in continuing with the exam, so she started asking me questions, and there was something about her kind eyes, and gentle approach that made me share my past with a professional for the first time. The floodgates opened. I talked so fast that she had a hard time keeping track of it all. Finally, she booked another appointment and referred me to my local health centre to see a therapist. I was back in her office after a few months and did the physical exam, she had an extra nurse in the room, and it went better than the shock of the first time. She told me that I most certainly had a tense pelvic floor, and she was to refer me to a pelvic floor therapist. However, the waitlist is long, and it could take years to “get in”. I still felt hopeful, knowing that one day I would get help. 

At the therapist in the local health care centre, I spilt all the tea. All of it. I felt safe with her; she was so down to earth and frank with me, exactly what I needed. She did realise that my issues were too severe for her and her degree, so she applied to me to be accepted to the psyche ward at the local hospital. She again used the words “get in” as if we were talking about a renowned university or something. She even cracked the joke, “If we can’t get you in for PTSD, we will try with ADHD”. That process was cruel, having to tell the worst of the worst stories so that I would be accepted in the therapy I desperately needed. 

A Friday night after work, I biked past some friends having a great time drinking bubbles on their balcony and joined them; we ate very little and drank much more. Large parts of the village showed up on that balcony that night, and I, for the first time, felt like a part of it all. I seldom drink much. Usually, I have one occasion a year when I drink more than makes me feel good the day after. This was my one time that year. On the following Monday morning, I got the call to come in for the obligatory drug tests needed before even being considered entering the psyche system, and I went in the same day to get tested. No worries about the drugs, as the only time I ever had drugs in my body was that time a bartender, put date-rape drugs in mine, and my two male friends drinks as “a treat” about 15 years ago. The alcohol, on the other hand, would it not have been for that one fun night just a few days earlier, it would have been fine. However, the result showed indications of alcohol abuse. Fun. 

In September, I had a meeting at the psyche ward with my future therapist; in that first meeting, I had my walls up. I did not show much emotion, and she did not believe me to have PTSD; she did flag me for depression. The second meeting we had was online. I was safe at home, and as she went through the checklist for PTSD mapping, I lost my breath at a point. She had to guide me on how to breathe. I who have been teaching others how to breathe properly for years. The story of what memory made me lose control over my breath will be part of the book I’m writing about my life and traumas. It will not be a fun read, but essential. That checklist and my reaction to memories shifted her view of my possibility of having PTSD. After collecting the info, she went on to say that they would have a conference about me and what possible treatment I might get because I was not confident I would meet the standards and be eligible for treatment. At the end of September, I got the call that they deemed my PTSD moderate to severe. I was to get treatment under the circumstance that I could prove to them I did not abuse alcohol. They booked me a time to retake the tests two months later, and I was to not drink a drop of alcohol until that date. 

I was ok with not drinking. My issue is that as soon as I add rules to eating and/or drinking, I tend to fall back into the deep hole of disordered eating patterns. I could feel all the intrusive thoughts I worked so hard on ignoring getting a way in by being forced to exclude alcohol. Several times a day, I would think, “What if I don’t eat this? What if I skip this meal? What if I starve myself to look super skinny again? what if…” The more intrusive thoughts, the higher the anxiety levels. 

At the same time as I retook the drug and alcohol tests, I got my first appointment with the pelvic floor physiotherapist. She was lovely, warm, caring and at the same time quite stern, in a positive way. She did not examine me until I knew and felt comfortable with her. Something wild to me. I was about to go, “Do what you need; I am fine”, and have her examine me at our first appointment, and honestly felt a bit disappointed she didn’t. She was right, though. I just never experienced anyone ever considering my feelings and well-being. Together we realised that my pelvic floor issues go all the way back to me being a little girl trying to take the little control she could of her life. All the years of constantly drawing the belly in or the years of sexual abuse didn’t help either. We were making process tho. 

In January 2022, after anxiously waiting two months for them to contact me, the PTSD evaluation started, and a series of therapy sessions to determine what kind of treatment would suit me best. I used a lot of forms and predecided evaluation systems. Still, a great deal of my therapist listened to me and let me lead the conversation as I slowly started to peel my layers of trauma. We had the last session in late May or early June and were to have a summer break and start the proper therapy in the autumn. We followed a protocol using a book to guide us through the treatment that was not primarily focused on PTSD or just one trauma, as I have a bouquet of them. I was doing well, and I could see improvements in many areas. In early December 2022, I had my first acupuncture sessions, which also added to my overall well-being. We had our last call in the middle of December 2022; little did I know that would be our last session, ever! 

In December, I had my last session with the pelvic floor physiotherapist, where she told me that I was done and I felt better! I had the tools to help myself when needed. I told her I knew there wasn’t a quick fix to problems like this, and she stopped me and said that recovering from my physical issues in a year is as close to a quick fix as possible. And she reminded me to focus on all I have done, all the breathwork, the stretching, relaxing and massaging. I did it. 

My therapist did a no-show on our booked time at the beginning of January 2023. I was confused and expected her to contact me for a new time. She didn’t. In February, I called the psych ward, and they said she would call me the following week. That did not happen. In March, I messaged them asking for a plan moving forward. The reply I received was that my therapist would contact me when she was back at work in April. Now, I really like my therapist. I know she is human, just like me, and I give her all the grace for needing time off for whatever reason. I if anyone gets that. End of April, I got a call from another therapist letting me know that she would not be back at work and asking me if I would like a “last session to tie up loose ends”. I am so confused and can’t understand what she means!?

Apparently, my therapist and her boss discussed where I was in my therapy, and they concluded that I was done!? We had a few chapters left in that book we followed; I was stranded, literary, left alone with gaping mental wounds and no information about the future for MONTHS. A thought flickers through my head that I just say, ok, I do not need you if you treat me like this. The way I would have reacted before therapy, but with a deep breath, I said, “I am not done, I need more therapy”. Deciding to fight for myself. For once. At the same time, my head spins when thinking about having to go through it all again. Because apparently, I have to. So now the new therapist is sending me a date and time to come to see her, she expressed that it will take time, and as I know they go on summer breaks, I assume that will be in the late summer-autumn. In that meeting, we will talk about if I need more therapy. If she deems that I do, there must be a new conference. There will have to be new tests. There will be a further evaluation. There will be MONTHS of waiting for proper therapy. If I get it this time, as the boss is set on me being done. 

Today I made a long list of reasons why I still need therapy. There are 15 points on that list, 15 separate traumas or experiences that singlehandedly could have prompted the need for therapy. I’m finally coming to the conclusion that I have been through more than most people. That I am so damn high-functioning, I have such a high drive to pull myself up and out of my traumas and negative experiences. I sometimes wonder why I am such a magnet for people mistreating me. Am I inviting it? You know what? I will fight for myself on this even if I know it will take a lot of energy and might end in great disappointment. Then I will know I did all I could and stood up for myself. I will make that part of my own kind of therapy. This fire I feel inside will be used as fuel for my fight. One of the saddest ripples from this is my trust in people having my back and caring for me, and my well-being got itself a real turn. I was getting to the point where I started considering the possibility of there being people I could trust. Don’t get me wrong, I have a few people in my life I trust, but they do not know the half of it; it is much too heavy a burden to carry. That’s why we go to therapy.

I want to end this text with an important reminder that I do not want to hear anything along the lines of me being faced with hardship because I can take it or that I would not be the person I am today without all my traumas. I would love not to be the person I am today because of my traumas but instead be someone who, from the very start of life, could be who she was and be stable in mental health. So please, if you feel the urge to comment something along those lines, stop and reflect. May it be that you never experienced life the way I and many others have and do not have a say in how we deal with it all?

Maybe that fire inside can be used to finish that book. Writing is indeed therapy for me.