Did you punch your mother in the mouth yet?
That question from my psychiatrist shocked the sh*t out of me.
It probably had the same effect on me as the effect on some of you finding out I see a psychiatrist.
Wait, what? I don’t want to punch my mother in the mouth.
He nodded and laughed at me.
I thought for a long time while he smiled and typed notes into his computer, nodding occasionally as he typed. All I kept thinking in my head was how cliché it was for a psychiatrist to blame our issues on our mothers. But I wasn’t sure that was what he was doing. Being a psychiatrist, he must have picked up on my brain spinning a mile a minute, so he let me off the hook by asking me another question.
How are the meds working?
I nodded, explained I liked how I felt. Except sometimes I feel like I am in a bubble, and I am afraid to speak because it feels like I have social Tourettes, and will say inappropriate things.
Who says they are inappropriate?
But it didn’t dawn on me until I started writing this blog right now, what my doctor was trying to make me see.
Before my “annie” ruptured, I went through life working hard; sometimes I worked two jobs and carried a full class load in college. I graduated as an undergrad with a 3.6 GPA.
And that disappointed me.
Because it wasn’t perfect; and I was supposed to be perfect.
I was essentially programmed by my mother to be perfect.
And I never was.
But also in trying to obtain perfection, I wasn’t myself either.
Because I didn’t think anyone would like me?
Well I told you I see a psychiatrist.
That was supposed to be funny.
The irony is I didn’t want to tell anyone that I was seeing a psychiatrist initially.
Because of the stigma, society places on it.
But society is so f*cked up why do we care what society thinks?
So anyway, initially I only told my “SF” about me seeing a psychiatrist. His response was simply:
It’s okay that you told me; I see one too.
GET THE F*CK OUT OF HERE?!!? YOU?!?!
For the record, he, for over twenty five years or so has always been one of the most “together” people I know.
Or was he?
It wasn’t until we had a lengthy “deep” conversation that we both admitted that in our lives we were conditioned to play roles. Father, mother, son, daughter, brother, sister, employee, student, friend…
And we stopped being ourselves.
And we were miserable.
Except, when we were together.
I think I mentioned once before that he was the only male in my life I ever felt completely comfortable around because I was being myself. He, in turn, said my little bungalow was a “place of Peace for him where he could just be.”
Okay here is the ironic twist in the blog.
I absolutely love my doctors:
My neurosurgeon, well because he saved my life and gave me a lot of knowledge about my brain.
My neurologist, because well, he is very kind when he explains to me what is happening now in my healing and, not to mention, he is the finest man I have seen in a while.
My psychiatrist because he cusses, gets frustrated with me, calls me silly and pretty much gave me permission to punch my mother in the mouth. (joke).
But what I love about my “SF” and my doctors is that they all do one thing:
They laugh at me.
And the laughter is symbolic of the ridiculous expectations I placed on myself and my life due to bad “programming”.
Do I still struggle with ADL’s and short term memory issues?
Can I do everything I used to do before the rupture?
And according to my psychiatrist, I shouldn’t have been doing some of that sh*t anyway, because when would I have time to sit back and smell the coffee?
I don’t know why he said coffee, but I wasn’t about to correct him.
So when I say I am happy my brain aneurysm ruptured, that may be a little extreme. What I am happy about is:
*I am alive.
*I do not have many residual “physical” limitations.
*And I have a second chance to find out and be who I really am.
****Did I mention my neurologist is really, really fine?
Peace and Shine On!!!
*** Note: this is just MY experience. I am in no way suggesting that people who are suffering through healing from a rupture should be “okay” (physically or mentally) I just feel that sometimes it can help to get a different perspective***