Misdiagnosed - some history

When I was 17 I was diagnosed with anorexia, bipolar and PTSD. They started me on meds and I got started in a comprehensive eating disorders outpatient program. We struggled with different meds, some would work for awhile and then quit, others did nothing. My insomnia was not officially diagnosed, although they did give me some mild sleep aids (not much help; I started smoking pot at age 18 to get to sleep).

Anyhow, in February 1994 I had just turned 19 and was back living with my parents. They accepted the anorexia, but didn't understand the bipolar and PTSD. The conditions they laid down for me to move back home were: I had to continue at my part-time job, find another part-time job or find 1 full-time job, start college classes, and do all of the laundry, dusting, mopping, sweeping, vacuuming, etc. I also had to pay rent. I lasted 1 month. One night I went out and got drunk with some friends, which was strange for me because I rarely drank, and when I did I usually did not get drunk. I was smoking pot but only enough to get to sleep. I stumbled in at 4am and sat down to wait to call in sick to work.

My mom came into the living room about 5:30am and asked me what I was doing and I told her...I was going to call in sick to work. She could smell the alcohol and asked me if I had been drinking. (Duh) I said yes, and to leave me alone. Mom said that I was not going to call in sick. I said I was. Back and forth until she finally said "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you. You're lazy. What are you going to do with your life if you insist on being lazy?" I screamed back "You really want to know? REALLY? My plan is to wait for all of you to leave the fucking house so I can kill myself". She stared at me for a minute and then said "I'm going to take a shower".

After her shower, she came back and said she was taking me to the hospital. Fine by me, I needed a break from being her slave. So we get to the hospital and they ask what is going on, I told them I was suicidal and struggling with my anorexia. I said that I still could not sleep. So they did the evaluation, which included questions about drug or alcohol use. I was honest (stupid, stupid!) and said that I smoked pot a little at night so I could sleep, and that I drank occassionally. The psychiatrist (whom I had never met before) decided that I was an addict and an alcoholic. When I disagreed, I was told that I was in denial. WTF? This guy hadn't even looked at my file yet, and he'd only been talking to me for 15 minutes.

So they put me in locked psych, and they were giving me librium to "help with the alcohol withdrawals". LOL, I wasn't having any withdrawals, but that librium sure was nice. They were getting me high; fine by me! After a couple of days the psychiatrist asked how I was doing, and I told him that I was still suicidal. He said I needed to be transferred to the recovery unit. I asked if it was an open unit, and he said it was, and I told him, I TOLD him, that if I could find a way to die, I would. He transferred me anyway. The second day on the unit I went up to the desk, asked for a razor to shave my legs, and took it to my room and slit my wrists.

Back down to locked psych. Can't say I didn't warn them! A week there, and then back to the recovery unit. I kept telling them that I was not an alcoholic, but they insisted that I was in denial. We had to write an essay about all the things we had done to get in trouble when drunk or high. I didn't have anything. I'd never gotten into trouble. I was put on restriction "until I was willing to face my problem and tell the truth". I was on restriction for the next 3 weeks, and they finally said they couldn't help me. They told me that I was being sent to a half-way house for women alcoholics. I told them I wasn't going. They told my parents that if I didn't go willingly that they should have me commited.

I was in the half-way house for 3 months. During the second month, I finally started to make up stories about how alcohol was ruining my life and that I could "see the light now". It was the only way I was ever going to get out of there. Finally, in July, I was released...back to my parents. I switched to a new therapist and a new psychiatrist, and explained all that had happened. They both agreed that I was NOT an alcoholic or an addict. I was finally diagnosed with chronic insomnia and put on better medication for sleep. My therapist helped me file for disability, and although I was denied the first two times, at the hearing after the second appeal (with the help of a lawyer), I was accepted in October 1995. I moved an hour away from my parents the day I got the back-pay check.

And now it's time for intermission...thanks for sticking with me.