Get Me Out of Here

by Rachel Reiland

  The words of my phone conversation with Nancy replayed themselves in my mind. If I was incapable of love, then what did I have with Tim? What did I have with Jeffrey and Melissa? It was a bleak time for me. I found it hard to even drag myself out of bed in the morning. Someone was getting up, going to sessions, and taking on the adult responsibilities of mothering, household, and career. But she was operating on automatic pilot without feeling or passion.

  The house was cleaner than it had ever been. I was getting work done and providing the family with a flow of income. The unpredictable emotional outbursts and the arguments with Tim had all but disappeared.

  Still Tim was disturbed by it all. He wanted his wife back, the passionate woman he had met years ago. I didn't know if she would ever come back or if her passion was forever lost. Tim continued to support me, to encourage my therapy, to say the words and show the signs of his love. But I knew his fear was much like mine. Maybe I had been better off as an untreated borderline than what I had become.

  Sessions with Dr. Padgett lacked the explosions of earlier ones. Rarely, if ever, did I come up with conclusions of my own. When Dr. Padgett did, I simply acquiesced. Even when I felt he might be wrong, a flicker of disagreement rising within me, I quickly thwarted it.

  Who was I, after all, to be able to trust my own judgment when it had proven to be distorted so many times? If Dr. Padgett was surprised by my sudden change in disposition, he did not express it. Instead he reassured me that there was a core within me, that I had an identity, and I would ultimately find it. In the interim he would be at my side, accepting me no matter who I was or how confused I might be.

  The Stepford Wife. Was this destined to be a perpetual state?

  There wasn't a flicker of sunshine as the snow continued to pile on the ground as it had for nearly two days. Somehow Tim had been able to maneuver his car out of a freshly plowed mound of snow and make it to the office, but the streets were barely passable. Almost every school and many businesses had closed for the day.

  At noon I had gotten a call from Dr. Padgett's service. He, too, had been unable to navigate through the snow and had to cancel my session. The kids were as housebound as I was, bickering over a game of Candy Land.

  I tried writing, but I wasn't in the mood for it, my thoughts forced and meaningless. I settled in with a trashy romance novel I'd picked up for a dime from a yard sale, but its foolish glamour and inane dialogue left me irritated and unable to concentrate.

  Around midafternoon the phone rang. It was my insurance company, disputing a claim from several months before. Most likely a result of anorexic behavior, my periods had become highly irregular. I'd missed one or two and then had one that lasted for an agonizing twenty days. Not wanting to take any chances, Dr. Padgett had referred me to both a gynecologist and an endocrinologist.

  It didn't surprise me that the insurance company was calling. Denying the first submission of a claim was the norm for them. With all the medical bills we'd accumulated and the number of specialists I had seen in the past few years, I had grown adept at the workings of insurance. The woman on the other end of the line was particularly surly.

  “We've seen your appeal,” she said, “but we have to deny the claim on these visits. We'll pay for the first gynecologist's visit but not the other doctor.”

  “Why not?” I asked patiently. This woman was fortunate to have caught me in my era of passivity.

  “You are only allowed to see one specialist in a field,” she answered haughtily. Is she the one with the attitude, or am I just perceiving it that way? “Any second opinions have to be preauthorized, and you didn't get preauthorization.”

  “These specialists aren't in the same field,” I replied calmly. “One was a gynecologist, and the other was a hormone specialist.”

  “That isn't what my records show,” she sniffed. “My records show that you consulted two doctors for a first and second opinion on irregularities in your menstrual cycle.”

  I winced at the words. I'd grown more comfortable in discussing such things with Dr. Padgett, but this woman was a total stranger. She's a bitch. Stop it, Rachel. You are being irrational. She's only doing her job.

  “There must be some kind of misunderstanding. Actually my psychiatrist referred these two different specialists to me. I've been anorexic, and I've also been on a number of medications. He was concerned that the problem might be more than just gynecological.”

  “Apparently, your psychiatrist didn't do any preliminary research on your policy coverage before he made the referrals,” she snapped.

  Is this woman stigmatizing me, or am I just overly sensitive?

  “Mommy!” Melissa ran up to me shrieking, her eyes streaming with tears. “Jeffrey says I'm too stupid to play Candy Land!”

  “Mommy's on the phone,” I said, my hand over the receiver. “Tell Jeffrey you aren't too stupid to play.”

  “But Mommy!” she protested.

  “I'm on the phone, okay?” I said, irritated, not wanting the insurance lady to hear me. Melissa stomped off, flashing me a dirty look.

  “I'm sorry,” I told the woman apologetically. “You know how kids can get when they're cooped up inside all day.”

  “I wouldn't know,” she replied tersely. “I don't have children. All I do know is that I'm very busy right now.”

  This woman is cold. No, you're the one who's cold. Why should she care about your kids anyway?

  “In any event,” she continued, obviously annoyed by the interruption, “we cannot pay this claim. You've exhausted your appeals. Actually, if it is related to anorexia nervosa, both claims may fall under the scope of mental illness, in which case, your copayment is 50 percent instead of 10 percent.”

  “How much are we talking about here?” I asked. What's wrong with you, Rachel? How can you just sit back and take this? Who is she to try and reverse a claim that has already been paid? You're getting angry, Rachel. Watch it!

  “The second opinion claim, which is totally your responsibility, comes to $125. The gynecologist's bill was $80. If we determine that it was mental illness–related, your copayment would change from $8 to $40.”

  “Mom!” this time it was Jeffrey tugging on my shoulder. “She scratched me! Look. I'm almost bleeding!”

  “Well,” I said, less patient this time as I covered the receiver with my hand, “she shouldn't have done that. But if you go around calling her stupid, what do you expect?”

  My words were met with an instant look of innocence, that of a martyr unjustly accused.

  “I didn't call her stupid!”

  “We'll talk about it later, Jeffrey. I'm on the phone,” I said tersely, then continued with the insurance rep. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

  “Ma'am, I'm very busy today,” she said haughtily. “I called to inform you that your claim is denied. Period. I don't have the patience to sit here while you lose your mind with your children. Maybe you ought to call your psychiatrist.”

  No doubt remained in my mind about that comment. It was a definite slam against me. Whatever attitude I might have had, she was out of line with that one, and I knew it.

  I heard one slap, then another, and then both kids were in tears, each trying to shriek louder than the other.

  I'd had enough.

  “Damnit!” I cried out, not bothering to cover the receiver. “I'm on the phone! Both of you, stop it—now! Once I get off this phone, you are both really going to get it!”

  Jeffrey and Melissa sobbed softly, stunned by their mother's outburst. It had been awhile since one had happened. Careful, Rachel, you're losing it!

  “I don't have time to waste on you,” the insurance woman said. “I suggest you get out your checkbook. Both of these bills must be past due by now.”

  The dam broke.

  “Listen,” I said tersely. “I've been very patient with you and your attitude. I'm the customer, and I'm entitled to be treated with respect. I also know what my rights are. Anybody who doesn't know what the d
ifference is between a gynecologist and an endocrinologist doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. It will be a cold day in hell before I let you get off the hook on this one. I'm not done appealing. I've just begun to fight!”

  “I don't have to listen to this,” she retorted. “Obviously you have an attitude problem.”

  “You will listen to this because I am the customer, and I'm in the right. And you have an attitude, not me! You wanna know what I'm tired of wasting my time on? I'm tired of wasting it on people like you in some glorified clerical job taking out your frustrations on other people because you think you have some kind of power over them. I'm tired of people like you and your company that don't recognize mental illness as an illness, even though science has proven it to be a fact!

  “But you know what? You're messing with the wrong lady. I guarantee you that your company will pay every single dime of these claims.”

  “My, aren't we overemotional,” she snapped sarcastically. “You really are crazy, aren't you?”

  “No. You're the crazy one to treat a customer the way you have because I intend to document every word of this conversation and your discriminatory attitude and take it directly to your supervisor. You have just made a big, big mistake.”

  “Are you finished?” she said, still with a superior air but a glimmer of worry in her voice that I might carry out my threat.

  “Yes,” I said. “I believe I am for now. But trust me, you'll be hearing about this.”

  She hung up the phone. I, too, slammed down the receiver. I refused to listen to another word of Jeffrey and Melissa's self-righteous protests and banished both of them to their rooms.

  Still shaking and a bit stunned at the re-emergence of an anger that had been absent for well over a month, I grabbed a pen and a yellow legal pad and began to write furiously. Undoubtedly I'd lost my composure and had probably overreacted to the circumstances. A part of me, however, felt strangely relieved. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

  The falling snow had abated, but the temperatures had dropped dramatically below the zero mark. The streets were cleared, although a few icy patches plagued the roads. I had been relieved when I'd called Dr. Padgett's office and heard he was able to make it in for the day. I'd spent a few days replaying the altercation with the insurance representative.

  I tried documenting the course of the conversation in a letter to the supervisor of the customer service department but was having a difficult time deciding what to say. I wasn't sure if I was accurately recalling the conversation or if my recollections were tainted by irrational anger. Half-written, the letter remained on my bedroom dresser.

  When I related the incident to Dr. Padgett, I was torn between remorse and righteous indignation, between all of my ambivalence about my rediscovered ability to feel and express anger and my fears that I had somehow been irrational or had blown everything wildly out of proportion.

  Bless me, Father Padgett, for I have sinned. It's been a few months since I really lost my temper. She may have felt she was just trying to do her job. In addition I didn't sit and listen to both sides of my kids' stories and render real justice. I just sent them to their rooms. I lost my patience. I promise to try and never do it again.

  “That's pretty much what happened, as best as I can remember it. I just don't know what to think. A few years ago I wouldn't have given any of it a second thought. Now I'm not so sure.”

  “She said all the things you're saying?” he asked, assessing the situation with the objectivity of a judge.

  “Yes, she did say those things. It's just that I don't know whether I overreacted or not.”

  “Do you think you have justification for the insurance company to pay both claims?”

  The legal issues were far more clear-cut for me.

  “Definitely. I think if I call the endocrinologist and have him resubmit the claim, emphasizing exactly what he did differently than a gynecologist would have, I have a good chance. And I know that they can't try and get out of paying for physical conditions just because I have a mental illness.”

  “So you think you were right to protest the denied claim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you feel you were somehow unjustified in the conversation?”

  “Because I got really angry. I threatened to contact her supervisor.”

  “Do you think what she said is the proper way to talk to a customer?”

  I had to think about that one.

  “No, I guess I don't.”

  “So what are you worried about?”

  “Maybe I had a right to be angry. But maybe I overdid it too.”

  “Welcome to the land of imperfection, Rachel,” he said. “Nobody can completely control their anger all the time. And even if you did overreact a bit, who doesn't sometimes? Everyone is irrational sometimes.”

  “Even you?” I asked.

  He smiled broadly then. “Even me.”

  The onus had been lifted. I'd been given permission to get pissed off again, to exercise my right to be assertive, even if I wasn't always in the right or crossed the fine line into aggression. Not all anger, not all irrationality was borderline rage or distortion. Some of it was just a part of being human.

  Most people inherently know this and might never have given it a second thought. In the intensity of my introspection, where everything I had once taken for granted was now in question, the normal emotions and actions of life had become an issue that paralyzed me for many weeks. I had, nonetheless, found an answer. I was more than “just a borderline.” I was also wonderfully imperfect. Human.

  Chapter 28

  Once upon a time perfectionism was my noble aspiration. My perfectionism extended beyond academics or career. I also aspired to be the perfect mother, lover, and friend, always appropriate in all my emotional expressions.

  Of course I never reached it. Worse, given my all-or-nothing thinking, I viewed myself as an abject failure when I, like every other human, inevitably failed to reach that goal. It was a wretched trap.

  As February rolled into March, the topic of perfectionism and my irrational expectations dominated sessions. My attitudes were changing as I began to realize that, although I could never reach such a state, I could still be satisfied with myself. A tremendous burden lifted as the tide of my self-hatred slowly ebbed. Laughter now reappeared in my life; the moments of remorse and self-recrimination were fewer and farther between. For the first time I was getting a taste of how it felt to have peace of mind.

  Realizing the absurd impossibility of perfection in myself also had an impact on how I viewed others. The borderline fixation on hero worship fluctuating with bitter disappointment blurred as I began to understand that my expectations of others had been dictated by the same faulty yardstick of perfection. Increasingly I could see the gray area, and I was finding it much easier to handle my relationships with other people. Everyone had flaws, even Dr. Padgett.

  Now the issue turned to my parents. I'd been more comfortable with them lately, and they, in turn, had seemed more at ease with themselves. Although I wasn't sure how I felt about them, Jeffrey and Melissa loved them. My mom and dad were good to them, playing, paying attention, and listening.

  Were these the same people who had raised me? Had my recollections been tainted or had my parents changed? Did they love me now? Had they always loved me? How could they have acted abusively if they had loved me? How could they act lovingly now if they didn't?

  Initially I had been reluctant to discuss my parents in any negative terms. But Dr. Padgett had encouraged me to reach into the memories and feelings of my inner child, which had led me to thoroughly despise them. He'd encouraged me to share the depths of my rage at them, the pain of the injustice, my childhood marred and, in many ways, stolen.

  Indeed, much of my acceptance of the need to change was rooted in the perceived transgressions of my parents and the depths of my repressed resentment toward them. With these feelings roaring to the surface with the momentum of
a speeding freight train, it was inordinately difficult to reverse course. But it was happening nonetheless.

  I discussed these concerns with Dr. Padgett and described my confusion about how I could loathe them so much and still feel pangs of guilt for judging them too harshly. His answer surprised me.

  “You feel that way because, despite it all, you still love them. They always loved you too. It was an imperfect love, perhaps, but love was there. It's part of what helped you get by.”

  I was unnerved at first by his apparent audacity. Here was the man who had prodded me into seeing my childhood for the travesty that it was, and now he was telling me that I still loved them. Even more, that they loved me and always had.

  It didn't make sense. If they loved me, then why had I spent these years in therapy? Why had I been hospitalized three times? Why had so much of my life been consumed by dreams of dying?

  I felt a tinge of betrayal. Was he siding with them?

  “A lot of awful things happened in your childhood,” he explained. “You were abused, and it affected you. But not every act of theirs was abusive. You've felt the hatred that you buried for so long. Now it's time to feel the love.”

  Sure, Dr. Padgett. Let me just snap my fingers and feel the love. Let's just forget everything we've been saying for the past two and a half years and just call them lovable.

  Was I screwed over, or wasn't I? If I was, then how do you expect me to just forget about it? If I wasn't, then what in the hell have we been talking about in here for all these hundreds of sessions?These thoughts just made me angrier. At my parents. And at Dr. Padgett. Why was I the one who had to feel all the pain and do all the work?

  “It's up to you,” he told me. “Whatever happened, happened in the past. You were helpless then. A vulnerable child. But you aren't helpless now. They can't hurt you in the ways that they did back then. It's up to you to decide what kind of relationship you want to have with them now. Adult to adult.”