In a court of law before a judge, we are asked to raise our right hand and solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God.
The whole truth?
The whole truth is humans don't know how to be truthful when they think their butts are on the line. It's our carnal nature to save ourselves at all cost. Throw in mental illness and well, the whole cause-and-effect, morally-ethical, conscience-driven attitude doesn't exist. It's broken. Caput. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Never existed, don't expect it to appear out of thin air. The diseased brain is quite simply, chemically incapable of doing anything other than preserving self.
Consider it the system default of survival mode.
The truth is, when you spell it that way, can you really blame a person for hunkering down, locking jaws, sinking in their teeth and defending the carnage of their erroneous thought processes if said individual is instinctually tripping the fight-or-flight switch when faced with any and every situation in which their appears to be a threat of survival, no matter how small?
I don't see how I can be angry with that.
No. Anger at the chemically diseased brain and the individual in which it resides accomplishes nothing. In fact, it can be argued that said anger only makes the healthy individual in the relationship angrier. Because the truth is...
Mental Illness is NEVER a curable disorder.
Cancer attacks at the cellular level and destroys tissues, organs and organ systems. Viruses lurk and pervert healthy cells with their terrorist DNA. Bacteria eat and eat and eat and destroy, destroy, destroy. All can be treated. Some with successful outcomes, others with the inevitable preternatural demise.
But mental illness?
It is the proverbial Boogey Man that stealthily and silently attacks when the victim is unaware. It is the vicious bull dog chained up in the junk yard and never fed. It is the conniving temptress on the street corner making promises of pleasure at a cost. It is the Grim Reaper, stealer of souls. It is the slithering snake that glides under the front porch to wait for you to let out Mr. Jingles for his morning game of cat and mouse. It lies, how it lies. Lies upon lies upon mountains of lies until the truth is so far gone that it becomes the lie.
The mystery of Sissy's "capped out" status is solved. The current agency that is working with her case cannot write the PRTF because then medicaid will consider them as incapable of providing adequate services to their clients. In other words, medicaid will say to themselves, "hey, this is the third time this patient has been referred by this agency for residential treatment. Clearly this agency doesn't know what they are doing."
The new game becomes not how to therapeutically manage my daughter's illness with medications and DBTs while she lives her days at home being pleasant for teachers and screaming shit at me but how to seamlessly switch core providers without interrupting the dosing of her psychiatric medications or letting on that my whole M.O. in switching providers isn't to provide better services for her but to get another agency to write the PRTF.
I could play the "call 911 or the crisis mobile team and go to the emergency room and hope to get a bed on the temporary pediatric psych floor while she is assessed by the on call team so they can determine if she needs a 1013 or a RTC placement"
Which, as history and experience will tell me, is crock load of crap.
Because the truth is, everyone that works in the mental illness field is being convinced by insurance companies that mental illness IS curable, manageable, treatable. You see? Lie becomes truth, truth becomes the lie.
I've had just about all I can swallow of mental illness, the stigmas, the idiocy of bureaucracy and the insanity of insurance. Today my daughter was all over the universe with her mood swings, tantruming, erratic behaviors and mania. And that was just today. From 4-8pm.
Oh, I'll raise my right hand and solemnly swear all right. How offended are you when you hear a steady stream of expletives?