I knew the itch was there.
I could scratcharoundit, but I was never satisfied.
Even the doctors who saw the itch couldn’t scratch it either.
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They told me itwasin the right place but never listened to me when I said the opposite.
Eventually, I accepted that they were right about the itch.
Because what else could I do?
When I told other people about the itch, I used the doctors words.
It’s right there, I said, referencing the location the doctors pointed out.
It never felt quite right, but there was no other option.
Until a mental health professional finally said, Waityoure scratching the wrong place.
And there it was.
Ive been getting treatment for mental health issues since high school.
The first diagnosis was clinical depression.
And Iwasdepressed, to be fair.
I had regular uncontrollable crying spells and a constant low mood, lower than it should have been.
I had been suicidal several times.
College was torture; I was miserable.
It was easy to see the depression.
But no one asked me about my sleepless nights.
Or the strange school assignments, circuitous, complicated, and indicative of some mental oddity.
They all just saw the depression, so that’s what they treated.
I was put on Wellbutrin, an antidepressant, and left to fend for myself.
There were also things I didnt tell anyone, mainly because I didnt think they were worth mentioning.
I thought everyone experienced these things.
I accepted that I had depression.
It explained some things very well.
And the Wellbutrin seemed to work, eventually.
I had more energy than ever, though I still didnt need to sleep.
But something was missing.
Being in my body was painful, excruciatingly painful.
I did not have a psychiatrist at this time.
My therapist and I never discussed nor put much stock in diagnoses.
But this episode spurred her to send me to Bellevue to try and meet with a psychiatrist.
It was like nobody was putting the pieces together.
It was like nobody was putting the pieces together.
I was hospitalized again after another mixed state.
This time, the assigned doctor believed I had a sensory disorder.
I didnt know what was happening to me.
But, of course, that was not my job.
That was my psychiatrists job.
And they all failed me.
After my first hospitalization, I was sent to a psychiatrist who had no idea how to treat me.
He eventually referred me to another psychiatrist who specialized in bipolar disorder.
I saw bugs where there werent any.
And yet, on every invoice was the DSM code for bipolar disorderBipolar II, to be exact.
Another Day, A New Diagnosis
Things turned around unexpectedly when my therapist went on maternity leave.
We discussed this in our first session, and it was like a lightbulb turned on in my mind.
Schizoaffective disorder is characterized by bouts of depression and mania as well as psychotic episodes.
And that was what had been happening to me this entire time.
Thats why I never quite fit my bipolar diagnosis.
I thought I was an anomaly, the exception to the rule.
All of a sudden, a discomfort I never knew I was feeling lifted.
It felt amazing to finally know what was happening to me.
But I no longer felt like a misfit.
Like a problem that had no solution.
On Acceptance
Ifired my psychiatrist.
My new doctor accepted my diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder and worked with me within the new diagnostic parameters.
Eventually, we landed on a combination of medications that made my symptoms few and far between.
Instead, I was thriving.
And I truly believe it was because I was finally correctly diagnosed.
This is her misdiagnosis story.
In hindsight, there were many flags that I was autistic.
when I started working from home and realized I was unmasking a lot of things I had held in.
This is technically true, but it does not mean none of us work full-time!).
Basically my special interests didn’t count because I get paid to engage in them.
(Tell that to pretty much every tech CEO!).
I’m still mad about that.
The Test Results Had to be Wrong, Right?
I remember joking several times, Imagine what I’d be doing if I had autistic hyper-focus!
Neither of these evaluators took insurance, and I paid $1600 total for both assessments.
The second evaluator gave me a discount, so it was significantly less expensive.
But how many people can’t afford one assessment, let alone two?
(BIPOC individuals are often and inordinately misdiagnosed when it comes to mental health and illness).
Her client believes this has caused issues with his ability tonavigate social relationships.
Part of their work together, his therapist says, includesnarrative therapy.
And when your diagnosis is wrong,youmight feel wrong.
Theyre the expert, right?
Wrongyou are the expert, the expert on your own lived experiences.
But a misdiagnosis can convince you otherwise.
Being prescribed an antidepressant from an erroneous depression misdiagnosis can cause mania in people who have bipolar disorder.
Its hard to tell how being on a medication you dont need can affect your brain and your body.
Thats why its important to understand all your symptoms and be prescribed the medication that most accurately addresses them.
Final Thoughts
Living with a misdiagnosis can feel isolating and disturbing.
You might feel as though nobody understands you or knows what to do with you.
You might feel as though you are a problem that nobody knows how to fix.
I certainly felt this way for years.
Thats why its so important toadvocate for yourself.
Dont be afraid to seek a secondor third or fourthopinion.
Sometimes, all it takes is determination and the ability to listen to yourself when something feels wrong.
For more mental health resources, see ourNational Helpline Database.
