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just got back from my appointment and i'm shocked but not really. my shrink finally told me flat out that i'm an ungrateful cry-baby that's throwing a temper tantrum over "some bumps on my face". after that, she gave me the whole "compare yourself to starving children" speech.

well...hah! i've never heard that one before! haha! it doesn't really matter though because i know in my heart that acne's the root of all my problems and if tane doesn't cure me...well, i'm gonna end my life. it's just going to happen and i'm okay with that.

so fuck her and psychiatry as a whole.

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Has accutane been working well for you so far? Honestly, I hope you can find the strength to live even if accutane doesn’t work, there are always second and third times to take it. Society may be fucked up and superficial but it doesn’t mean you have to die. I don’t really know what to say, I don’t know your circumstances, I’m a random stranger. Please don’t kill yourself. What exactly about acne is making you want to actually end your life? Yes, it's horrible, disgusting, extremely difficult to deal with, it's not something most people can ever be completely comfortable with. I'm not pretending to know how you feel and I don't know what it feels like to have severe acne but I can imagine it must be torture. But what happens when you're 30 and the acne goes away? Do you really want to give up your whole life for this? :cry::cry: Is there anything you enjoy in life?

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Suicide is a selfish act.

I'm surprised a therapist would react that way, but you must have pushed it pretty damn far with her to do so.

Violets put it perfectly.

I can't understand though, how acne is the root of all of your problems. That's silly. It's how you react and perceive things that make it a "problem". You really need to relax about this thing. Dont look in the mirror so much. Try to smile every once in a while. You really don't deserve to beat yourself up like that. Imagine, you're threatening a life. That's scary.

Ever considered the stress over having acne being the cause of it?

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You have to remember that a psychiatrist/psychologist isn't a mind-reading/mind-controlling/wizard/magician/uberrobot...

They're human, and the techniques they can use to help patients are more than oftentimes limited simply to verbal communication. Obviously, if after 10 sessions of trying to cheer you up the other way, she/he might just have felt that perhaps you need a different approach (obviously, it didn't work from what you've posted, but from your doctor's point of view, I mean, there's only so much they can go in trying to force one method that keeps on not working).

Really take into heart what the above posters say. Can you really say that acne completely ruined your life? Can you admit to yourself that because of acne, you don't even have simple pleasures anymore like eating your favorite food, being with your family, listening to music, watching movies, etc.?

There are a lot more reasons to live for than to die because of acne.

Really think it through. You may solve acne by suicide, but you'll be giving up a billion things that you could've enjoyed (and you'll also be giving up the chance that your acne will get better in the near or far future).

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thanks for your sympathies but it's too complicated. it would take pages, upon pages, upon pages to explain myself and ooooh i've done that many, many times. only i know what i feel and what i must do to fix it. nonetheless, you guys are cool for at least trying.

Has accutane been working well for you so far? Honestly, I hope you can find the strength to live even if accutane doesn’t work, there are always second and third times to take it. Society may be fucked up and superficial but it doesn’t mean you have to die. I don’t really know what to say, I don’t know your circumstances, I’m a random stranger. Please don’t kill yourself. What exactly about acne is making you want to actually end your life? Yes, it's horrible, disgusting, extremely difficult to deal with, it's not something most people can ever be completely comfortable with. I'm not pretending to know how you feel and I don't know what it feels like to have severe acne but I can imagine it must be torture. But what happens when you're 30 and the acne goes away? Do you really want to give up your whole life for this? :cry::cry: Is there anything you enjoy in life?

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Wow, I don't know what to say. I just wish you could see that you don't have to view yourself as a failure, whatever happened you can always make it better and keep trying or put it in the past and learn to respect yourself and not say such bad things about yourself. It's not easy, it's not easy at all. Acne is a bitch, a big asshole--you shouldn't let it control you and kill you. Even if you have to sit inside your house shielding yourself from the world until your acne gets better, do that. But above all you need to realize you are not nothing, don't say that. It sounds like you have a lot of other issues that need adressing, but acne is the one manifested straight on your face, reminding you of how you "failed". It seems like you're clinically depressed :cry: , are you on medication? (sorry if that's too personal). Acne isn't your fault though, there's nothing you can do to control it. Have hope that accutane will work, try 2, 3, 4 courses even-its better than dying! and by the way, if you ever want to explain yourself here writing pages and pages and pages there are people that will listen.

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Wow, I don't know what to say. I just wish you could see that you don't have to view yourself as a failure, whatever happened you can always make it better and keep trying or put it in the past and learn to respect yourself and not say such bad things about yourself. It's not easy, it's not easy at all. Acne is a bitch, a big asshole--you shouldn't let it control you and kill you. Even if you have to sit inside your house shielding yourself from the world until your acne gets better, do that. But above all you need to realize you are not nothing, don't say that. It sounds like you have a lot of other issues that need adressing, but acne is the one manifested straight on your face, reminding you of how you "failed". It seems like you're clinically depressed :cry: , are you on medication? (sorry if that's too personal). Acne isn't your fault though, there's nothing you can do to control it. Have hope that accutane will work, try 2, 3, 4 courses even-its better than dying! and by the way, if you ever want to explain yourself here writing pages and pages and pages there are people that will listen.

really, thankyou. i understand it's hard for you to see why i think the way i do but that's okay. i've been looking back on my life a lot lately and i never would of imagined myself thinking the things i think today, back then. i would of been ashamed of myself. my psychiatrist thought about putting me on meds but i don't think that's a wise decision, considering i'm still on accutane. i guess all i can do is hope but i don't know how much longer i can last.

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Just because someone went through a master's program for two years and got licensed does not mean they will make a good therapist. There are good therapists and bad therapists. I'm a social worker, and I've met lots of bad therapists, lots of mediocre therapists, and a small handful of amazing therapists.

Not only that, but not every pair of people will 'click.' To one person, a therapist may be incredibly helpful. To another person, they might be the worst shrink on the planet. It all depends on what kind of person you are and how you communicate.

I would really encourage you not to give up. Do some therapist shopping. Make a list of questions for the therapists you call up. Remember, you are purchasing THEIR services. YOU are the customer, and you have a right to ask as many questions as you want before you commit to purchasing what they're selling. It is their job to convince you that they are capable of providing a good service to you. Do not be afraid to interview them, or to tell them that you would prefer to look for a different therapist.

First, decide - what kind of therapy do you want? Therapists are trained in a variety of ways. There's psychoanalysis, cognitive-behavioral, group therapy, gestalt therapy, play therapy, art therapy. There are different theories and ideas about how therapy should work. And different therapists have different belief systems and values.

There are different kinds of licenses. There are psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers and counselors. MAs, PhDs, MDs, MSWs, PsyDs, you name it.

What about gender? Do you prefer a man or a woman?

Then there's areas of expertise. What kind of specialty does this therapist have? Do they work primarily with depressed people, or sexual assault victims? What are they knowledgeable about?

Ask them questions like, "What do you think causes problems for most people?" or "How do you feel about depression caused by acne?" If your religion is important to you, ask them if they think religion is an important aspect of recovering from depression. If you feel strongly about not taking medication to treat depression, ask them how THEY feel about it.

You can do a search on Google for "choosing a therapist" for more help on this topic.

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God is the one thing that saved me from ending my life. maybe it'll help you, i don't want to pressure you though.

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Your therapist sounds as if she allowed her temper to get the better of her. If not, she's simply not a good therapist, from what you've given as evidence. I would recommend finding a more suitable therapist who can be sensitive to your specific needs.

As for the thoughts on suicide, I am not here to judge, or condemn, which is why I am posting a poem I wrote not too recently, concerning a friend I lost contact with. I wrote it because I have been in the same place where suicide seems like the only logical thing, and because I was sick of listening to the spite of others who knew and loved her less. Even though she killed herself, I could never not love her because of it. I understand as well as I can. You simply care for nothing more than to stop all the pain. I will tell you that I hope it passes for you as it has for me. In the meantime, I hope you get the help you need, better than what this therapist is giving you.

To a Suicide

My girl, my dear,

kneeling down proudly,

a knight receiving an extraordinary glory,

the world, with its many mouths, claims you bleed

into the dust of your great dishonor.

You, my darling, catching poisons with your mouth like tossed peanuts,

haven't time to think of caskets, though we want a last mercy for you;

There are some few who would not sacrifice the flower for such a funeral,

Who would spare no pity for you, a girl who spared herself least of all.

The soul is a clumsy and brutal thing to have.

There is no way to say what it is,

or why.

She knows how the words clog

the throat, how they choke and are swallowed down

without having ever been said.

Still, she speaks to me of the desire that is misunderstood,

the act that is always a bad headline:

When I was a child, I heard choirs singing everywhere

in the voices of clocks, saying names, names, the analyst's list

of death: "Mary, 12: 24!" "John, 3:52!" "Annie, 7:39!"

There was never a name I did not hear in the wind, on the grass'

sloping hill. There was never a second that I did not cry, small,

behind the shed of our house, waiting to hear my name next.

She says, it is the seizure of remembering that brought me to this hospital room,

lotus flowers blooming through the bandages on my wrists.

I would once throw my heart into the wastebasket,

crumpled up, like a bad poem, or hand it to any stranger

who had more need than me to have it.

Cast it into the water as bait and see what clung to it

coming up, ferociously alive despite its stillness.

Your passion may be contagious.

We are terrified of touching the suicide disease.

"Broken hearts invent their temporary cures," we cry,

as we waste the arsenic in our closets, taking such small doses,

discussing our own fatal prescriptions behind their backs.

Admire the one who says "Enough."

In this time such words are not whimsy.

They have all the weight of an ocean

preparing to storm borders.

No, no! she cries. You have it all wrong.

Whatever is your choice, I love you.

As for mine, allow my last words to be the meager coat,

all I have to give to you of myself at last, as your storms

become solitary and the best you can do is to lie unmoving

within the eye of it:

What I do not want

is to hear how my actions prove

cowardice, or see the offerings of tears,

flat dull pennies, open in your palms.

Perhaps it is that I only wanted to see snow in spring,

fall down into it and forget where I was,

and who I have been. The flute-lonely call of birds

through my window, the sorcery of a weak winter sun.

Only accept that the same call has come tumbling through

to you, the same temptation to sink to your knees and sleep

in that snow. Do not cry, "Coward!" Do not sob, "Sorry"...

Say that call came to you, beautiful for its moment, that deep intimacy,

and up to your knees, or even your waist, say that you keep walking,

warming yourself by the hearth of your heart, even after the coals have become

ashes, the fire; mere embers.

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/

Sorry about the link......every good writer has their precautions. :cool:

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Your therapist sounds as if she allowed her temper to get the better of her. If not, she's simply not a good therapist, from what you've given as evidence. I would recommend finding a more suitable therapist who can be sensitive to your specific needs.

As for the thoughts on suicide, I am not here to judge, or condemn, which is why I am posting a poem I wrote not too recently, concerning a friend I lost contact with. I wrote it because I have been in the same place where suicide seems like the only logical thing, and because I was sick of listening to the spite of others who knew and loved her less. Even though she killed herself, I could never not love her because of it. I understand as well as I can. You simply care for nothing more than to stop all the pain. I will tell you that I hope it passes for you as it has for me. In the meantime, I hope you get the help you need, better than what this therapist is giving you.

To a Suicide

My girl, my dear,

kneeling down proudly,

a knight receiving an extraordinary glory,

the world, with its many mouths, claims you bleed

into the dust of your great dishonor.

You, my darling, catching poisons with your mouth like tossed peanuts,

haven't time to think of caskets, though we want a last mercy for you;

There are some few who would not sacrifice the flower for such a funeral,

Who would spare no pity for you, a girl who spared herself least of all.

The soul is a clumsy and brutal thing to have.

There is no way to say what it is,

or why.

She knows how the words clog

the throat, how they choke and are swallowed down

without having ever been said.

Still, she speaks to me of the desire that is misunderstood,

the act that is always a bad headline:

When I was a child, I heard choirs singing everywhere

in the voices of clocks, saying names, names, the analyst's list

of death: "Mary, 12: 24!" "John, 3:52!" "Annie, 7:39!"

There was never a name I did not hear in the wind, on the grass'

sloping hill. There was never a second that I did not cry, small,

behind the shed of our house, waiting to hear my name next.

She says, it is the seizure of remembering that brought me to this hospital room,

lotus flowers blooming through the bandages on my wrists.

I would once throw my heart into the wastebasket,

crumpled up, like a bad poem, or hand it to any stranger

who had more need than me to have it.

Cast it into the water as bait and see what clung to it

coming up, ferociously alive despite its stillness.

Your passion may be contagious.

We are terrified of touching the suicide disease.

"Broken hearts invent their temporary cures," we cry,

as we waste the arsenic in our closets, taking such small doses,

discussing our own fatal prescriptions behind their backs.

Admire the one who says "Enough."

In this time such words are not whimsy.

They have all the weight of an ocean

preparing to storm borders.

No, no! she cries. You have it all wrong.

Whatever is your choice, I love you.

As for mine, allow my last words to be the meager coat,

all I have to give to you of myself at last, as your storms

become solitary and the best you can do is to lie unmoving

within the eye of it:

What I do not want

is to hear how my actions prove

cowardice, or see the offerings of tears,

flat dull pennies, open in your palms.

Perhaps it is that I only wanted to see snow in spring,

fall down into it and forget where I was,

and who I have been. The flute-lonely call of birds

through my window, the sorcery of a weak winter sun.

Only accept that the same call has come tumbling through

to you, the same temptation to sink to your knees and sleep

in that snow. Do not cry, "Coward!" Do not sob, "Sorry"...

Say that call came to you, beautiful for its moment, that deep intimacy,

and up to your knees, or even your waist, say that you keep walking,

warming yourself by the hearth of your heart, even after the coals have become

ashes, the fire; mere embers.

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/

Sorry about the link......every good writer has their precautions. :cool:

beautiful poem. thank-you.

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