Post by avvmmra on Jul 2, 2020 12:58:37 GMT
I write in this post because I really need to talk about what was probably one of the most hopeless experiences in my life.
I will start from the beginning. I am a thirty-six-year-old man from Spain, but I live in London for almost six years. I was to leave my country because there was no hope for me there. Although this is not actually relevant for my story, I think that I must also tell it.
As everyone in this forum, I have been a maladaptive daydreamer since I can remember, and that is at least since I went to the kindergarten. At that time, I already used to daydream with anything, from what I wanted to be when I was older to being a friend of my favorite cartoon characters; it is said, the most common childhood daydreams.
Maybe, because of my tendency to daydream and be lost in my thoughts, the other children started to think I was a weirdo, and insults and mocking immediately followed, even sometimes being considered a retard or moron by the rest, and that was extremely offensive and hopeless for me. In addition, because of my fame of being a weird person, everything that had to do with me could be exaggerated and twisted. To take an easily understandable example: If my nose was itching and I scratched, someone watching me scratch could think I was picking boogers and would run to tell everybody I liked picking boogers, and I’d immediately get a disgusting and embarrassing fame of booger picker just because I was fucking having an itchy nose.
For that silly reason I was gradually lost my self-confidence, and when I was fourteen, on the edge of adolescence, and about to begin the high school, I became an introvert, shy, and anxious person. As I told before, everything connected with me tended to be exaggerated and twisted, and something like shyness could not be an exception. In my case, introversion might be considered social awkwardness, and that became another reason to be underestimated, what did not help to recovery the lost self-confidence at all and in this way to stop being shy and making the snowball bigger.
Despite this, I have never been fully a socially awkward and unsociable person as some people have made me believe, because I have never lacked friends, but not all my friends were good friends. Some of them were unable to understand my daydreaming condition and enjoyed undervaluing me, and sometimes they annoyed me by calling me empanao (a pejorative word used in my native language by slum people to describe someone who frequently gets distracted by thoughts, as it is the case of daydreamers).
As I have always had attention deficit in class because of my daydreaming condition, that caused me to have some problems with some teachers, who could be really ruthless if one’s head was in the clouds and did not pay attention, trying always to embarrass in front of the whole class. Despite these difficulties, I was a good student and I passed my exams and progressed in my studies, so I demonstrated to not be as hopeless as the most short-minded people thought, but not all subjects were easy for me. For example, I really loathed English, the subject where I must learn the language that I am now able to use to write these words.
Time passed, and I graduated from high school, so I could already go to college. My college stage began good. I was studying something I liked in a calmer ambient than elementary and high school where some people used to be jerk (in high school a little less than elementary). Despite, I had friends with whom I got along well because I had already left the ones that used to mock me because of my daydreaming condition, so “friends” was not the correct term for them; people with whom one used to hang out because back then there was not much room to choose would be a more correct definition. Until now, that had been the happiest period in my life, and I felt recovering my self-confidence little by little, but all the good things got to end, in the same way The Roaring Twenties came to an end with The Crash of 1929. I can say I had my own Great Depression.
As I was just starting my third year in the college, I began to feel a kind of agoraphobia. I had felt that phobia before, the first time when the end of my last high school year approached. It came and went temporally because it seemed to be an intermittent phobia, but that time I started to be worried, so I decided to consult a psychiatrist.
The psychiatric consult was short, (less than the duration of The Simpsons episodes without commercials), because without even having psychoanalyzed and barely asked me (not even wanted to listen to me and know my opinion) the psychiatrist made the decision of sending me to a center of intensive therapy, where I’d had to go five days per week, six hours per day. He said that it was a particularly good therapeutic center for agoraphobia, though actually there were just two case of agoraphobia in that center, me, and another guy; the rest was other heterogeneous cases, and some of them were not even grave enough for a psychiatric intensive therapy of about thirty hours weekly. Besides, he said that it would be for six months though the average duration was of two years and half or three (the most hopeless cases even almost six years). I think he was a lazy psychiatrist because other later times I went to his consult he seemed to pay more attention to his computer screen than his patient wanted to tell him. Maybe, as he had back then a tight schedule and could not make space for me, the best solution, for him, to solve the problem was to send me the first place he thought, because for him, that was the path of least resistance.
The idea of going to that place was not pleasant for me because it could take up time from studies, friends, and other important things in my life, and because I had the feeling that place might be a sort of kindergarten for maladjusted adult persons, and the least I needed to improve my self-confidence was to be part of such a place; people having a low opinion of me would finally be right. If I accepted was because, besides being anxious and desperate, and the psychiatrist gave me no more choices, my mom, who accompanied me to the psychiatrist, was very persistent. Although she loves me too much, she has never understood how I am (daydreaming is incomprehensible even for a mother), and she thought that my mind could be molded and programmed to her liking in that place. I finally accepted, so, after all, it would be just for six months as the very honest psychiatrist was telling.
Next, I will tell what in that therapy one had to face thirty hours weekly during at least two years and half, as long as one did not leave before completing it, which was more than the fifty percent of the cases. One of the rules in that place was to not drink alcohol during the time the therapy lasted, not just in the therapy center; even drinking in free time, out of therapy hours, was not allowed. If the therapy lasted more than three years, one could not drink any amount of alcohol for more than three years. It would have been reasonable if that had been a therapy for alcoholism, but, in fact, there were not problems associated with alcohol abuse there. The reason was simple. We were poor mentally ill-persons, maladjusted people as they reminded us daily, and because of that we had to be treated like children, and alcohol is not allowed for children. My suspicions of being a kindergarten for maladjusted adult persons were being confirmed. As I mentioned before, not all cases were grave enough for an intensive therapy, and not all cases had to be grave enough to be worsened by alcohol intake if it was moderated. For example, a guy was there because he said to not be persevering in his jobs, it is said, job he had, job he left shortly because of getting bored. Explained better, that guy did not really like working, and the time he stayed in that therapy, the time he did not have to work. It is worth mentioning that was a private therapy, financed by insurances, so all the cases, though these were not extremely grave, were welcome because of the money of the respective insurance. It is also worth mentioning the psychiatrist who sent me there, though he had his own psychiatric office in another place, also worked for that therapy center because he used to go there once a week. Each one can draw his own conclusions.
About the different therapies given in that place, there was one in concrete that I loathed deeply since my first day there, consisting in meeting all the patients and therapist in a circle just to throw anything in each other’s face, and not necessarily important matters. Sometimes these could be trifles such as making some jokes or standing up from the table too soon, it is said, somethings that made in any other different place no one would give any importance, but in that place they were indicative of a socially awkward behavior and, therefore, another reason to be treated like a child, or even a moron. For me, that disgusting therapy was a kind of witch-hunt or Inquisition trial and contributed to grow my anxiety because it was also used to treat the problems of each one with a lack of tact or delicacy, so finally the atmosphere in that place could become as toxic as the Big Brother house. In fact, that therapy was the most important for them because it took place more hours than any other.
There were some therapists that did not have too much tact by treating with patients. I remember concretely one, a woman, reminding to Doctor House, who enjoyed putting salt in the wound. For example, one day, in a therapy, a guy talked about his fear of having to work because he was very bullied in the school and thought he would be bullied in the job as well. The answer of this psychologist who was supposedly there to help people was, in a mocking tone: “What’s going on with you? Are you perhaps like a baby?” She also wanted to consider me a completely socially awkward and sought any opportunity to remind me, even wanted to think about me I was totally isolated socially because of my daydreaming nature and did not even had friends to go out, that the only friends I could have were imaginary, but that was not true at all; more or less, better or worse, I have always had friends and have never been a completely lonely person as “Miss Kindness” wanted to think. In fact, in that center there were patients not considered as socially awkward as me who did not have any friends because no one stood them because of their difficult and toxic character, always wanting to quarrel for any nonsense, but the socially awkward person had to be always the daydreamer, and not the quarrelsome one.
To tell more about this sort of therapy that they said to be suitable for everyone, not matter the mental condition or personality of each one, sometimes they planned some activities used to add fuel to the fire. For example, one day, a therapist, one of the most empathetic with patients, no doubt, thought up a game consisting in voting who were the best therapy-mates, and who were the worst. That game was a little dangerous because who were not benefited in the voting could feel unloved and humiliated by the rest, just what they and their self-esteem needed the most in that moment. It is incomprehensible what the therapist conceiving that bloody game was expecting.
To end and not expand on more, I must tell my agoraphobia got over, but not because of the efficacy of such methods, but seeing the jam I ended up because of that. Because of all I have told in this post, I became an anxious person, even as of today, though I have a better life and I finally was able to prove I am not as dysfunctional and socially awkward person as some people used to think because of my daydreaming condition, I cannot forget nor even forgive all I have lived and constantly memories of those times come to my mind to torment me.
I will start from the beginning. I am a thirty-six-year-old man from Spain, but I live in London for almost six years. I was to leave my country because there was no hope for me there. Although this is not actually relevant for my story, I think that I must also tell it.
As everyone in this forum, I have been a maladaptive daydreamer since I can remember, and that is at least since I went to the kindergarten. At that time, I already used to daydream with anything, from what I wanted to be when I was older to being a friend of my favorite cartoon characters; it is said, the most common childhood daydreams.
Maybe, because of my tendency to daydream and be lost in my thoughts, the other children started to think I was a weirdo, and insults and mocking immediately followed, even sometimes being considered a retard or moron by the rest, and that was extremely offensive and hopeless for me. In addition, because of my fame of being a weird person, everything that had to do with me could be exaggerated and twisted. To take an easily understandable example: If my nose was itching and I scratched, someone watching me scratch could think I was picking boogers and would run to tell everybody I liked picking boogers, and I’d immediately get a disgusting and embarrassing fame of booger picker just because I was fucking having an itchy nose.
For that silly reason I was gradually lost my self-confidence, and when I was fourteen, on the edge of adolescence, and about to begin the high school, I became an introvert, shy, and anxious person. As I told before, everything connected with me tended to be exaggerated and twisted, and something like shyness could not be an exception. In my case, introversion might be considered social awkwardness, and that became another reason to be underestimated, what did not help to recovery the lost self-confidence at all and in this way to stop being shy and making the snowball bigger.
Despite this, I have never been fully a socially awkward and unsociable person as some people have made me believe, because I have never lacked friends, but not all my friends were good friends. Some of them were unable to understand my daydreaming condition and enjoyed undervaluing me, and sometimes they annoyed me by calling me empanao (a pejorative word used in my native language by slum people to describe someone who frequently gets distracted by thoughts, as it is the case of daydreamers).
As I have always had attention deficit in class because of my daydreaming condition, that caused me to have some problems with some teachers, who could be really ruthless if one’s head was in the clouds and did not pay attention, trying always to embarrass in front of the whole class. Despite these difficulties, I was a good student and I passed my exams and progressed in my studies, so I demonstrated to not be as hopeless as the most short-minded people thought, but not all subjects were easy for me. For example, I really loathed English, the subject where I must learn the language that I am now able to use to write these words.
Time passed, and I graduated from high school, so I could already go to college. My college stage began good. I was studying something I liked in a calmer ambient than elementary and high school where some people used to be jerk (in high school a little less than elementary). Despite, I had friends with whom I got along well because I had already left the ones that used to mock me because of my daydreaming condition, so “friends” was not the correct term for them; people with whom one used to hang out because back then there was not much room to choose would be a more correct definition. Until now, that had been the happiest period in my life, and I felt recovering my self-confidence little by little, but all the good things got to end, in the same way The Roaring Twenties came to an end with The Crash of 1929. I can say I had my own Great Depression.
As I was just starting my third year in the college, I began to feel a kind of agoraphobia. I had felt that phobia before, the first time when the end of my last high school year approached. It came and went temporally because it seemed to be an intermittent phobia, but that time I started to be worried, so I decided to consult a psychiatrist.
The psychiatric consult was short, (less than the duration of The Simpsons episodes without commercials), because without even having psychoanalyzed and barely asked me (not even wanted to listen to me and know my opinion) the psychiatrist made the decision of sending me to a center of intensive therapy, where I’d had to go five days per week, six hours per day. He said that it was a particularly good therapeutic center for agoraphobia, though actually there were just two case of agoraphobia in that center, me, and another guy; the rest was other heterogeneous cases, and some of them were not even grave enough for a psychiatric intensive therapy of about thirty hours weekly. Besides, he said that it would be for six months though the average duration was of two years and half or three (the most hopeless cases even almost six years). I think he was a lazy psychiatrist because other later times I went to his consult he seemed to pay more attention to his computer screen than his patient wanted to tell him. Maybe, as he had back then a tight schedule and could not make space for me, the best solution, for him, to solve the problem was to send me the first place he thought, because for him, that was the path of least resistance.
The idea of going to that place was not pleasant for me because it could take up time from studies, friends, and other important things in my life, and because I had the feeling that place might be a sort of kindergarten for maladjusted adult persons, and the least I needed to improve my self-confidence was to be part of such a place; people having a low opinion of me would finally be right. If I accepted was because, besides being anxious and desperate, and the psychiatrist gave me no more choices, my mom, who accompanied me to the psychiatrist, was very persistent. Although she loves me too much, she has never understood how I am (daydreaming is incomprehensible even for a mother), and she thought that my mind could be molded and programmed to her liking in that place. I finally accepted, so, after all, it would be just for six months as the very honest psychiatrist was telling.
Next, I will tell what in that therapy one had to face thirty hours weekly during at least two years and half, as long as one did not leave before completing it, which was more than the fifty percent of the cases. One of the rules in that place was to not drink alcohol during the time the therapy lasted, not just in the therapy center; even drinking in free time, out of therapy hours, was not allowed. If the therapy lasted more than three years, one could not drink any amount of alcohol for more than three years. It would have been reasonable if that had been a therapy for alcoholism, but, in fact, there were not problems associated with alcohol abuse there. The reason was simple. We were poor mentally ill-persons, maladjusted people as they reminded us daily, and because of that we had to be treated like children, and alcohol is not allowed for children. My suspicions of being a kindergarten for maladjusted adult persons were being confirmed. As I mentioned before, not all cases were grave enough for an intensive therapy, and not all cases had to be grave enough to be worsened by alcohol intake if it was moderated. For example, a guy was there because he said to not be persevering in his jobs, it is said, job he had, job he left shortly because of getting bored. Explained better, that guy did not really like working, and the time he stayed in that therapy, the time he did not have to work. It is worth mentioning that was a private therapy, financed by insurances, so all the cases, though these were not extremely grave, were welcome because of the money of the respective insurance. It is also worth mentioning the psychiatrist who sent me there, though he had his own psychiatric office in another place, also worked for that therapy center because he used to go there once a week. Each one can draw his own conclusions.
About the different therapies given in that place, there was one in concrete that I loathed deeply since my first day there, consisting in meeting all the patients and therapist in a circle just to throw anything in each other’s face, and not necessarily important matters. Sometimes these could be trifles such as making some jokes or standing up from the table too soon, it is said, somethings that made in any other different place no one would give any importance, but in that place they were indicative of a socially awkward behavior and, therefore, another reason to be treated like a child, or even a moron. For me, that disgusting therapy was a kind of witch-hunt or Inquisition trial and contributed to grow my anxiety because it was also used to treat the problems of each one with a lack of tact or delicacy, so finally the atmosphere in that place could become as toxic as the Big Brother house. In fact, that therapy was the most important for them because it took place more hours than any other.
There were some therapists that did not have too much tact by treating with patients. I remember concretely one, a woman, reminding to Doctor House, who enjoyed putting salt in the wound. For example, one day, in a therapy, a guy talked about his fear of having to work because he was very bullied in the school and thought he would be bullied in the job as well. The answer of this psychologist who was supposedly there to help people was, in a mocking tone: “What’s going on with you? Are you perhaps like a baby?” She also wanted to consider me a completely socially awkward and sought any opportunity to remind me, even wanted to think about me I was totally isolated socially because of my daydreaming nature and did not even had friends to go out, that the only friends I could have were imaginary, but that was not true at all; more or less, better or worse, I have always had friends and have never been a completely lonely person as “Miss Kindness” wanted to think. In fact, in that center there were patients not considered as socially awkward as me who did not have any friends because no one stood them because of their difficult and toxic character, always wanting to quarrel for any nonsense, but the socially awkward person had to be always the daydreamer, and not the quarrelsome one.
To tell more about this sort of therapy that they said to be suitable for everyone, not matter the mental condition or personality of each one, sometimes they planned some activities used to add fuel to the fire. For example, one day, a therapist, one of the most empathetic with patients, no doubt, thought up a game consisting in voting who were the best therapy-mates, and who were the worst. That game was a little dangerous because who were not benefited in the voting could feel unloved and humiliated by the rest, just what they and their self-esteem needed the most in that moment. It is incomprehensible what the therapist conceiving that bloody game was expecting.
To end and not expand on more, I must tell my agoraphobia got over, but not because of the efficacy of such methods, but seeing the jam I ended up because of that. Because of all I have told in this post, I became an anxious person, even as of today, though I have a better life and I finally was able to prove I am not as dysfunctional and socially awkward person as some people used to think because of my daydreaming condition, I cannot forget nor even forgive all I have lived and constantly memories of those times come to my mind to torment me.
