While in the mental hospital, every six weeks, or later, every six months, I’d have a treatment plan meeting. Not that my treatment or its goals changed anything over the 9 1/2 years that I remained in the hospital; my treatment goal was always to find me a suitable place to live and my treatment involved, well, what, actually? I honestly can’t tell you even now that it’s been over four years since I’ve been out.
What did change, were my diagnoses; from autism and an adjustment disorder (which explained my acute crisis that had led to my admission), to autism and impulse control disorder, to autism, dissociative identity disorder and PTSD, to eventually no autism at all and just borderline and dependent personality disorder and a little bit of depression (not otherwise specified) thrown in (just because with just personality disorders on my file I would have had to be discharged right away). The nurses said the psychologist who’d added depression, did me a favor that way. I think they were just completely clueless as to what they were doing with a complicated case like mine.
This post was written for the Six Sentence Story Link-Up, for which the prompt word this week is “Treatment”. I am not sure I did it right this time. I hope I did.