This might come across like reading my twitter, if I had a twitter, but here goes anyway.
I absolutely loved reading your comments and I am not just saying that. I always get very excited when you lovely people comment and I read my comments over and over. Feel free to diagnose me accordingly ; today I am feeling rather good. I had my first appointment with my new psychiatrist yesterday. In case I didn’t mention it, or you forgot, my primary care physician insisted I see someone and then told me she would no longer prescribe psychiatric medications for me, just to give me some “I’m out of Klonopin!” nerves and “I’m running low on Paroxetine! Side effects of withdrawal will be hell!” jitters. I was surprisingly not angry with her for this. I know she knew it was the only way I would go and she used it and I say well played, if her intentions were good, and I think they were. Anyway, I was originally unhappy because there were so few psychiatrists accepting new patients so I got stuck with a man when I had asked for a woman. Now, I love men. I usually get along with them better than women, truth be told. But I have had male doctors in the past and I thought I would be more comfortable with a woman. Plus, this guy’s office is far away from my house and after I wrote down his name and the appointment time Alex googled him and he got his degree from the University of They Have Universities in That Country!?!? I know that sounds horrible, but if I named the country you would know what I mean, as it’s associated with dire poverty, starvation, and death. Angelina Jolie is expected to swoop down in her private jet and adopt a child from that country any minute just because it’s that bad there. Plus, I was worried that he would have an accent I wouldn’t understand and then I’d have to either tell him, “I’m sorry. I am only catching every third word here.” or I’d have to shoot for context and just nod and hope my responses were correct. I don’t have the best hearing and it has become increasingly clear that I need to get a hearing aid or at least a Miracle Ear implanted but I haven’t even wanted to deal with any of that.
I spent yesterday morning fretting and filling out the forms they sent weeks ago. I actually had to attach another sheet of paper to list all of the medications I take. When I got to the family history part I was worried because the first thing on there were the questions about my parents, their ages, are they living, and if not, cause of death. I actually considered lying about my Dad. I feared that as soon as I wrote “Father, Death in 1985 at age 57, Cause: Suicide” that would be the primary focus of the appointment.i went ahead and told the truth, figuring it would be in my medical records anyway. My mom offered to drive me. At first I resisted, but she had a compelling argument; she’s only seen me once since she returned from Australia, and she knew I was going to be taking a bus to a hospital I am not familiar with and she has been there several times. I agreed and when she insisted she would wait until my one hour appointment was over and drive me back home I asked if she would like to go out to lunch, my treat, and then maybe visit a plant nursery. She was excited about the nursery idea, and she knew one that she thought I would like in the vicinity of the hospital.
When we arrived at the hospital and found the wing that contained the doctor’s office I started to have a panic attack in the elevator up. I didn’t say anything but I was considering reaching for my last few Klonopin and popping a couple when my mom reached out and squeezed my hand and smiled. I knew then that she wasn’t there because I was unfamiliar with that part of town, or that hospital. I felt like a big, dopey kid trapped in the body of a thirty five year old woman. I decided against the pills, partly because I thought it might be beneficial for the doctor to see me in the panic state I live in most of the time, but mostly because I was almost out and what if he didn’t give me any prescriptions?
My mom lead the way off of the elevator, knowing somehow the exact ways to turn, as I followed carrying racing heart, churning tummy, and a dizzy head. After I’d checked in with the receptionist I looked through the stacks of magazines and pulled out some that I knew my mom would enjoy. I stared down at my dirty clogs and realized that I should have cleaned the dried flour off of them before I came, but I hadn’t thought of it. My mom read bits and pieces aloud from a magazine, some article about saving thousands at the grocery store. A dark skinned man in a well cut suit entered and walked through the waiting room and through the door. My mom was excited like a school girl, bouncing in her seat, “That’s him! That’s your doctor! He’s so cute! Isn’t he handsome? Oh my!” I felt awkward sitting there in jeans and a T shirt, clogs still dirty from baking at work, my face free of makeup, my hair pulled into a ponytail with bobby pins slipped onto the sides of my head to catch those wisps of hair that always slip out and curl around my face.
When he came to the door and called my name I stood on wobbly legs and followed him. We made out introductions but he didn’t shake hands. He led me into the smallest office I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a closet, seriously. There was enough room for a desk and two chairs and that’s it. I had brought a water bottle with me and when I asked if it was OK if I sat it down on the corner of his desk he said, “Yes, it’s OK, I will be drinking my coffee”, and then motioned to his Starbucks cup. I realized that he thought I was asking permission to drink and I smiled and said that I didn’t want to leave a white ring because of the condensation and he just waved that worry off, not the type to bother with coasters I suppose.
He asked for the history of the meds I have taken in the past and believe me, I had to pull out notes for that one. So many years, so many different pills. He asked the history of my depression and anxiety and a few other general questions. Happy marriage? Good kids? Work history? Etc. The only things that gave him pause to question me further were the facts that I admitted I have no friends, the fact that I don’t know how to drive, (he thought that to be absolutely stunning and questioned me in depth about how I’d managed that), and the fact that I admitted to worrying more about my daughter than my son, (he said he felt like I was projecting something from my own childhood onto my daughter). I imagine that I am not the only one who worries more about my teenage daughter than my teenage son (people help me out here, have you experienced this?) but I didn’t argue with him about it. He questioned the fact that my Mom was in the waiting room and took notes about the fact that she drove me there, but whatever.
There was a moment in that hour somewhere where he let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I wondered if it was a test to see how I’d react. I sat in silence for some time as I looked around the closet room and then I finally asked him, “So, I am guessing you don’t treat many claustrophobics ?” He looked confused for a few moments until he looked around his office and laughed large. I felt better because I always try to make my doctors laugh at least once and for damn near 200 dollars an hour he’d better find me funny every so often, or at least fake it.
Mostly he talked about anxiety and how much harder it is to treat than depression because anxiety is a normal human emotion and then he went into medications and an in depth account of how they work and although I have done a lot of reading about this myself over the years I didn’t want to interrupt him. He said that he would be happy to provide me with my prescriptions and wrote them out and told me to make a follow up appointment with the receptionist. Basically it was much easier than I had worried about and he gets mad props for not making me tell the whole story of child abuse and my dad’s suicide because I didn’t want to and I was afraid he would say he needed to see me three times a week but nope, just once a month.
Afterwards my mom and I went out for Mexican food even though my mom has this “If it’s wrapped in a tortilla it’s crap” opinion. She selected the restaurant. I ignored the margaritas even though I really wanted oneand we had a nice talk. When we were finished we went to a nursery where I bought a bunch of plants for my garden. When I got home Polly and Nathan came out and helped me plant them, and that my friends was the best therapy of all.
