When Self-Sabotage Is Too Strong To Stop

As an adult I watched my father struggle, unsuccessfully, with his demons and I watched an intelligent man sabotage himself and destroy a life that could possibly have been saved.

My biggest fear, even larger than dying, is ending up like him, what I envision as the crazy cat lady, locked in out of terror in an apartment that I share with a dozen cats, an apartment that reeks of cat urine and feces, alone and afraid of everything and anything.

My psychiatrist and therapist, Dr. Adena (not her real name) always points out the difference between him and me. “You’re getting treatment,” she says. “He did not.”

I think to myself “But there’s something in my genes.” Now it’s starting to become more evident, this process of self-destruction and self-sabotage and the ways in which it’s affecting my life.

I am aware that I’m somewhat somatic, tending to go to the doctor earlier rather than later in the case of something that worries me. Several months ago I realized that one of the reasons was because my mother was one of those people that never went to the doctor, never complained and when she finally did go, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died within three months of her first doctor’s visit in twenty years.

The story with my father was similar. I don’t think he went to see a doctor in forty years, since his doctor, Hymie, an elderly Jewish man, whose office was in the building that I grew up in died. When I finally took my father to the ER he was diagnosed with heart problems. My brother and I tried to get him into a nursing home but he didn’t qualify. A year later he was diagnosed with sepsis and he died in a palliative care facility several weeks later. It was painful to watch him go downhill.

It’s not so much death as I fear as suffering and a slow gradual decline — like I witnessed with my father. Once he collapsed on the floor in his apartment and lay there for three days before I went over and found him.

So I go the doctor more often than I should. I’ve left early from work for appointments, taken days off when I’ve gone to the emergency room and the doctors have admitted me, keeping me overnight for more tests. This deep-seated fear of having an illness has interfered with other areas of my life and put critical aspects of it in danger.

Dr. Adena and I have discussed why I keep pursuing this, what I get out of it despite the humiliation I feel when yet another doctor returns with the test results and says that nothing is wrong. Perhaps it’s spreading the attention around; I don’t want to wear her out, so I seek attention from other healthcare professionals even if it results ultimately in distress. Do I constantly need reassurance that I am not ill, that each symptom will not blow up into something larger? I don’t yet know.

Dr. Adena is getting frustrated and so am I, but I keep acting in this way and although I am in a concrete way acting the opposite of my father (seeking medical help), the pattern of self-sabotage is playing itself out for some reason I do not understand.

I’ve been able to put an end to a number of self-destructive behaviors in my life; starving, cutting, using drugs but this persists. I feel compelled to get an answer for my chest pain even though logically I know my heart checks out, for my exhaustion even though I know it is not anemia.

I liken it to a person who goes on a diet to lose weight and makes a vow to forgo desserts. I make a vow not to make a doctor’s appointment or go to urgent care, but when I feel pain or another symptom all that goes out the window, just like when someone who loves sweets sees a chocolate chip cookie.

Is it a matter of willpower or is it something deeper? Hopefully I can conquer this “addiction” with more work in therapy and deeper and closer self-examination as to the immediate — and not so immediate rewards.