Well, the doctors appointment went all right. I took almost the entire hour to give my history of troubles, diagnoses, and medications. I finished with enough time for the doctor to clarify a couple things I mentioned and write me a prescription. Yes, prescription. I caved. For years I've held out on any sort of medicating "solution." I hated being on them before. Yes, they helped. Yes, I handled things better. But was I really myself? No. I was Medicated Me.
Yet here we are, roughly four years from then and I have allowed myself to be back to popping pills [though safely now]. It was great that I was treated as an adult, in a non-judgemental situation, and to top it off, by a very soft spoken man. Back when I had my last psychiatrist, he treated me like I was mute and retarded. Now, I don't like used those words in that way but that is how I felt. I did not feel mentally disabled. I felt retarded. Handicapped. Helpless. He did not value my opinion in my own life and dictated when and how much medication I would be taking. I'd like to stab the professors that allowed him to graduate into his field of business.
Moving on. I left the appointment feeling relieved. Nervous about my medication, yes, but I finally took a step to asking for help, something that has literally taken me years to vocalize.
Now don't you be thinking this will all be positive, happy-happy-joy-joy.
There was still one more appointment I had to make.
The therapist.
I'd just like to start by saying it was one of my biggest pet peeves to arrive for an appointment at a specified time and then have to wait for the other person. Don't make me adapt my schedule to you and then leave me in the waiting room-you will not be dealing with my pleasant side!So the lady finally comes out of her office to get me and lead me down the hallway. Hold on though, there's not one person, there's two. The older lady introduces herself as Blah Blah and the younger girl as Blahh, a graduate student. No one told me there would be a grad student sitting in on my first therapy session in years. Now I'm angry.
I struggle to focus as I realize the lady has been talking this whole time. She wants me to retell the ENTIRE story I just told two days ago to my medical doctor. Great. I proceed, attempting to go through it as fast as possible seeing as I had just practiced it. I didn't even feel like I was talking about me. I was just talking about the synopsis of some fucked up book. I felt like Mus musculus, the little white mice used in experiments all the time. I was just a prop for some grad student to get her degree and end up just like that d-bag I dealt with years before.
I danced in and out of listening to what the therapist was saying but zeroed in when she asked, "How come you never thought about committing suicide?" Umm, what?
My heart began racing. Don't tell them. Don't tell them. They're required to report it. She can break your trust, and she will!
I quickly mumbled over the story of Kurt and how from him I realized the effect it has on your family. Very true. I just neglected to mention when I learned that in comparison to the rest of my own mistakes.
That hour could not go by fast enough. I was rescheduled another appointment for the week after and whisked out of there, furious that I had to sit there and get stared at. I didn't want to be a method for learning. I was there to get my own help and feeling like the puppy in the window was not the way to "cure" me of anything.
I fought and fought over the next couple days what to do and I finally caved and called to cancel my appointment. The lady on the phone offered to help reschedule it and I told her I had to find out my work schedule before knowing when I came in. I hung up and felt a wave of relief. I was too angry to talk to anyone there. It wasn't fair what the threw me in to and I wasn't about to go through another hour of Mus musculus.
