Two weeks after trying to kill myself, I got dumped by my therapist

A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 11 Does horror belong in romance?

Two weeks after trying to kill myself, I got dumped by my therapist

Rage is my new favorite emotion. Where it once terrified me, it now fuels me.

Before I got discharged from the hospital, I knew I’d have to go into inpatient. There really wasn’t any getting out of it—I’d swallowed an entire bottle of pills, with the intention to kill myself (except I didn’t mean it, mean it). Even if I didn’t sign myself in, the doctor would definitely sign me in under a physician’s certificate, and I’d lose all autonomy for a minimum of 72 business hours. Imagine stripping away bodily control from someone with a history of sexual assault and chronic illness. Imagine doing that to anybody. I knew how that story ended, from my time in Catholic psych. Even in the best of facilities, depending on the providers, mental health care is often controlling in its methods at worst, or too lax at best if the provider is burnt out or overbooked.

I couldn’t do inpatient at that hospital because a family member worked on that floor, and it’d be a violation of all kinds of HIPAA. So my only option, it seemed, was to transfer.

Except that meant being an hour away from my support system.

Catch Up

It’s been one week since I tried to kill myself

by Elizabeth Barone November 22, 2024

I turned me off and then back on again, and it actually worked

by Elizabeth Barone November 24, 2024

How I know I’m not dead (or hallucinating all this in a coma)

by Elizabeth Barone November 26, 2024

Even though my sister-in-law and Mike had the car, there was no way he’d get out there to visit me every day. It was already hard for him to get to our local hospital. My sister-in-law takes care of their disabled brother and I didn’t expect her to also drive my husband back and forth.

I could do inpatient, completely isolated from my loved ones. It’d be hard, and I’d hate every moment of it. Inpatient isn’t trauma informed, not yet.

After multiple conversations with the medical doctor on my floor and the director of the behavioral health program, we decided to discharge me to an intensive outpatient program, or IOP. Hanging out the window on the drive home home, soaking in the sunshine and fresh air, I realized nowhere in my paperwork had there been an appointment time. Just a number to call, highlighted in green.

When I called the next day, it rang and rang, then went to a robotic voicemail that repeated the number I’d dialed before inviting me to leave a message. It never stated what department I’d even reached, or who I was leaving a message for. I left my name and number, said I’d just been discharged and was looking to schedule an appointment for my IOP, and no one ever called me back.

Fine. That was fine. I’d left a voicemail for my therapist while in the hospital, catching her up quick and letting her know I’d be in touch soon. She’d tried calling me back at the hospital but due to HIPAA they wouldn’t patch her through. (Apparently I only gave permission for Mike to call me; even my best friend couldn’t get through.)

I texted her, letting her know I’d left a message for IOP. She replied, and I think it was Saturday or Sunday morning that she called and left a message to tell me she’d be available at 8 p.m. that Sunday night if I wanted to have a session on the phone (before our biweekly telehealth coming up that Wednesday, I thought). I thought the call was an emergency session so I could start processing everything. She’d mentioned we’d discuss next steps, but during our actual call, as I tried explaining what happened the night I tried killing myself, she steered me back to The Plan.

IOP was four days a week, she said, and there was such a thing as too much therapy. Effective immediately, I wouldn’t be seeing her biweekly anymore. I’d maybe see someone monthly. Someone in person, in-office, for my safety.

My heart sank. I felt like she was passing me off. I’d been so relieved to finally find someone who took Medicare. Biweekly and telehealth worked for me because I am chronically ill, often in too much pain to drive, am now the primary driver because of my husband’s seizures, and my days are usually booked solid what with all the chronic illness.

Also, I hadn’t realized IOP was four days a week, three hours a day. Even via telehealth, that’d be a lot. I had no idea how I’d drive myself back and forth and take care of myself. When would I eat? How would I also get Mike to his doctor appointments? How would I make it to my own appointments after such intensive mornings?

She had some clinicians in mind, and we’d discuss them in my next session. She let me go long before my hour was up.

I’d thought I was getting an emergency session, and I’d nodded along with her as she talked me through all this, but once I got off the phone, that nagging feeling persisted. I’d needed to talk about things, and I hadn’t got that. Instead, it felt like she’d just covered her and the office’s asses, “for my safety.”

I wanted to be safe. I didn’t want to go through that hell again, nor put my loved ones through that again. What I kept telling everyone, though, was that I needed that deep processing, or reprocessing, or whatever I needed to do to finally properly heal all my traumas. She’d explained that IOP was mostly medication management and skills teaching, not at all trauma informed or even talk therapy.

I sure as fuck wasn’t taking any medication like that ever again, and I needed to talk.

Still, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, because she was just doing her job.

Wednesday came along and I went down to the car for my scheduled session, anticipating talking through all the things swirling through my head, but again she breezed right to The Plan.

They had a male clinician, she said, who did intensive trauma therapy several days a week, in person (reminding me about my safety). I nodded along, irritated but determined to be patient and advocate for myself.

“The whole reason I needed telehealth to start with is because of my conditions,” I reminded her. “Some days I’m just not able to drive, but I can still get down to my car for a session.”

She nodded, and continued talking about in-office sessions and safety and how I needed a local provider, and how she wasn’t even local and able to see me at the hospital if I needed to go back (a few minutes later she referred to a local event I was planning on attending).

“Yeah, and, also, not for nothing, I’m a rape survivor, and right now I really need a female clinician while I’m processing all this.”

She told me they had two female clinicians available, assuring me that the office would work with me to take my insurance. Funny how, months and months ago, when I desperately tried getting into therapy specifically so I wouldn’t end up in the hospital or worse, they didn’t take my insurance, so sorry, and couldn’t work with me, so sorry, but here’s a list…

I thanked her for them being willing to work with my insurance. She said one of the clinicians did EMDR for deep processing, and she’d reach out to both to confirm their availability, but at least one of them should be available.

I could reach out to my old therapist, too, I offered. I didn’t know her schedule or if she’d still be able to set up a private practice just for me like she’d once offered, but I could at least reach out and see. Between both our efforts, I told her, I knew I’d land in the right place, that I’d be in good hands.

I really actually believed that.

On Wednesday December 4th, I expected to hear from her or figured I’d reach out. She texted me first, and I eagerly opened it. I couldn’t wait to start.

The office didn’t have any female clinicians available, her text said.

I’d landed right back where I started.

Shit happens. Everything books fast these days. There’s a shortage of health and mental health care workers, and too many patients who all deserve quality care. I knew that, and still it was a crushing blow.

I’ve been doing this dance for years. My health and quality of life depend on it. When things book up and I find myself overwhelmed with all of it, I take a short break from all things medical. The patient burnout struggle is real, and it’s important to rest and refill your emotional well.

The timing is never good when you’re not well, but it’s especially bad when you just tried to kill yourself.

She wanted to know if I’d I made contact with the two counselors I’d mentioned. I’d only mentioned one. She was the one who was supposed to reach out to two therapists who supposedly already had quite a bit of availability.

I’d been looking forward to trying EMDR, to keeping this post-traumatic growth momentum going. The last thing I wanted was to rebound; it’s a thing with suicide survivors, and even though I don’t remotely feel suicidal, I’m maybe too aware of that. With EMDR, I’d get to finally experience that deep processing and healing, all under the care and guide of a professional.

She’d given me the impression that two female clinicians were available. She’d also cut two sessions short on me, back to back.

The system was failing me yet again.

I spent the next week in self-care mode, focusing on my physical and emotional needs. I continued processing everything on my own. I get sick of me sometimes, but at least I always listen.

A week later, I’m regrouping. The damp, cold weather has my pain levels higher and my energy needing constant refueling. I’m a shitty iPad battery. I’m working through things on my own, hurrying to journal when my hands aren’t too sore to write.

The system has never worked for me. Not because I’m special, but because it doesn’t really work for anybody. If you’ve ever needed to see a doctor while working nine to five Monday through Friday, you have somewhat of an idea of how, the way things are now, this system isn’t systeming.

I’m not in any way saying that doctors and therapists have no place in treatment. When the provider is collaborative, open, and empathic, magical things happen. The best providers empower and support patients.

Everyone needs people. We also need to be our own best friends.

When you’re desperate to save your own life, “I’ll just do it myself” becomes less of a trauma response and more of a battle cry, a decree, a return to old ways forgotten, new ways unfound, your ways unfolding.

Thank you for reading Chapter 6 of my suicide memoir, Can’t Be Killed.

Author’s Note

The excerpt you just read is currently Chapter 6 in my suicide memoir, Can’t Be Killed. If you’re feeling like I skipped forward a bit from the last chapter I posted, that’s because I did. I’ve been writing this memoir like no one’s ever gonna read it, which is how you want to write a book. That said, a few people are reading it! To make sure I’m staying on track and meeting my intentions for this book, I may be skipping posts until the first draft is complete and self-edited. If you need me to fill in any blanks, please leave a comment.

If you’d like to support me in writing this memoir, Can’t Be Killed stickers are now available in the Maietta Ink shop!