*Dr. X is how I refer to the doctor who was my attending while I was in inpatient for 13 and a half months. He never specifically gave me permission to write about him on my blog so I’m giving him the same privacy that I would want given to me.
September 1 was my three-month anniversary of being out of the hospital, which may not seem like much but it’s the longest I’ve been out at a time since December of 2018. I thought about whether it would be okay to leave Dr. X a voicemail just to quickly let him know that I’m okay and thank you and find me on apostateturtle.com. I decided to wait until after Labor Day and then I called the unit and asked to be forwarded to his answering machine. They said that he didn’t work there anymore, but they couldn’t give me any additional information.
I tried to just not care because it was already unlikely that I would ever see him again, so it felt like sadness was not justified. But as usual, deciding to not care didn’t work. I just had sad dreams and then came to day treatment today and cried. The clinician suggested that I write out what I would have said to him if I could see him.
I’m trying to be more open to taking other people’s suggestions, so here we go. Dr. X, if you’re out there, thank you. Thank you for being the one doctor who was unwilling to send me home to die. Thank you for believing in me and respecting me even when I couldn’t properly toilet myself. Thank you for working as hard as you did to hone your skills so you could know how to help. Most people don’t want to take on someone who is already in their thirties, but you did. I will always be grateful to you and I will always remember you.
Thanks to you, not only am I out of the hospital, but I’m actually thriving. I haven’t had to go back to the hospital once since I was discharged from your care. And I’m not dragging myself along, trying desperately to avoid the ER because, for the first time I can remember, I don’t need to be in the ER. Instead, I’m going back to school and working toward my 10-year plan.
Remember that time you locked me up in the back and took away everything but my johnnies and a pillow ON MY BIRTHDAY and then left for the weekend? Thank you. My parents never cared if I hurt myself, and it meant a lot that you were willing to look like an asshole to keep me safe.
I frequently remember disjointed episodes from childhood that were mostly traumatic. But now I also constantly remember random things like the story above when you went out of your way to help me. I’m sure it was no picnic to convince insurance to keep me in the hospital for thirteen and a half months in a unit that is designed for three to five business days. And it’s nice to have memories that inspire gratitude to balance out painful memories of my parents.
I’ve been working on my book. But you are a stinker and you left with no forwarding address so I don’t know how I’m going to get you a copy. DMH is considering getting me neuropsych testing and I haven’t forgotten that I was going to send you a copy. But you’ve probably moved on to bigger and better things. I sure hope so, anyway! I worry that something bad happened to you. I really hope you’re okay.
And I sure hope you think of me sometimes. That was what hurt the most. I worry that now that you’re away from the setting where you worked with me, you won’t think of me anymore. Maybe Petunia the orchid that doesn’t like to be put in a box can remind you.
It feels like my safety net is gone. I thought that if anything happened, I would be able to check myself back in for a couple of days, but now you’re really really gone. I’m scared that something bad happened to you and you’re dying or something. I want you to be out there living your best life and thinking of me often. I update this blog sporadically, so you might have assumed that I abandoned it and you won’t know that I’m still here.
But maybe someday you will see this and I really hope you do and you’re okay. And thank you for saving my life.
P.S. I couldn’t tell you this at the time because I had aphasia, but when I was in the deepest darkest scariest part of my dissociative episode, one thing that gave me a bit of comfort was the idea that maybe you would be able to write a case study on my disorder and be published in a journal somewhere and you would be famous for discovering Dr. X syndrome. It seems as though every doctor’s ultimate career goal is to have something awful named after them. I already felt like you were a nice enough person that I was glad I could make that a reality for you. Now it seems as though I’m fine because you cured me of Dr. X syndrome, which should have made you even more famous but alas, it seems like you got nothing out of it but altruism. But if you’re ever hard up for money or whatever and you want to write a scholarly article describing the most freaky dissociative episode ever, consider this your written permission to use my name or whatever in that.
P.P.S. You think you’re safe but if I ever publish that book, I’m sending you a message on LinkedIn. That site is for professional contacts and not friends and I feel like me hawking a book would really be just a professional connection.
P.P.P.S. I miss you.
