A Bridge Over Troubled Waters

A Most Curious Diagnosis

Other than autism spectrum disorder, I've had a brief "alphabet soup" of mental health diagnoses.  So far "just plain nuts" isn't on that list . . . although a few relatives might disagree.  (Personally, I prefer the term "clinically discombobulated.")

This true story has nothing to do with "bravery" per se.  However, it has much to do with both emotional connections and disconnections.  Perhaps then it is a cautionary tale of sorts.

PS: I've carefully reviewed, and then annotated, this entry.  I claim no absolute precision, but it stands.

***

Once upon a time, I consistently attended a local, psychiatric, adult, out-patient center.  It was of the "clubhouse model."  For the less able clients, it functioned as adult daycare.  We went there for things like group therapy, a hot meal, supervised chores, and socialization.

At the time, it was almost my entire social life.  I remember being content, happy, and comfortably social.  In short, I thought that I was doing pretty good, plus had made significant (or at least satisfactory) improvement.

Apparently, somebody disagreed:

I was standing by the front reception desk, silently minding my own business.  The staff office was really close by (likely ~15 feet away, maybe less).  A few other clients were within earshot.

Fairly suddenly, the on-duty clubhouse supervisor walked by.  I don't even remember him making eye contact.  He calmly informed me that my diagnosis had been changed to "schizoid personality disorder."  And...

And then, he kept on walking.  No privacy.  No explanation.  No orders.  Nary a word about what the diagnosis even meant.  After that . . . nothing!  For many days, maybe many weeks: nothing changed.

Nothing.  Changed.  (Nada.  Zip.  Zero.)

I was mostly ignored by any staff, including the psychiatrist!  This seemed, well, weird.  Almost spooky.  I never asked any questions [at least for a long time].  After all, that whole no privacy / no explanation thing had me baffled.  Besides, I didn't think that anybody would answer any questions — if... I had bothered to ask!

•  I mean, why risk being ignored — when you're already being ignored?

It became a decreasingly important waiting game.  As in, how long would they let me slide by?  Who would relent first: them or me?  It became a moot point.  I was there (seemingly) because I liked being there.  If I was content with my progress and situation, then why would their opinions have even mattered?

Stop.

There was this thing called "spenddown."  It was some ridiculously complicated, insurance deductible plan.  In short, if you wanted "necessary" services, then you had to meet your "spenddown."

Our necessities could include medication, a psychiatrist, case management, a decent meal, and a decent social life.  When you're -strange- then you can't take anything for granted — especially not a social life!!

Well, adult daycare is expensive.  By spending hours at the clubhouse, one could meet one's spenddown much faster.  For many of us, logging time at the clubhouse was our ONLY option for "spending" the required funds.  Some clients had to be there, basically, every hour that the place was open!

Besides, exceeding your spenddown was far better than NOT meeting it!  Being around familiar faces didn't hurt, either.  My wanting to be at that "clubhouse" made my illusion of choice convenient.

Many years later, I became curious enough to look up the prescribed treatment for "schizoid personality disorder."  What I learned explained a lot.  My opinion: it may be one of the most mutually frustrating diagnosis ever!  [Mutual for both the patient and the mental health staff.]

But that "rude?" lack of privacy?

Yeah.  That could've gone better.  [O well.  :) ]

***

Commentary:

***

Hmm.

The problem with closing this chapter / essay years after I started it is that I haven't the froggiest idea what that-there "commentary" was.  Now ain't that a hoot?

"Woof."

Um.  I said hoot.

"Ribbit..."

Smart Aleck.