I met with the psychiatrist yesterday. He irritated me, taking his notes and deciphering me in 60 minutes. Middle-class? Check. No childhood trauma? Check. History of family depression and anxiety? Check. No eating disorder, OCD or mania? Check. You’ve got depression exacerbated by anxiety. Go away.
To be fair, he was thorough. But the problem is “I present so well.” I look put – together, I can sit and have a conversation with anyone, I save my falling apart for later. The only people who see me fall apart are my partner, sister, and therapist. So why should I expect the psychiatrist to see how anxious and depressed I really am? I look fine. My symptoms are not obvious.
He said that he would not have prescribed the wellbutrin, but he would have kept me on the clonazepam. He said he would write a recommendation letter to my GP, and that she would be the one to make the ultimate decisions, along with me. He pissed me off, because I think the wellbutrin is just starting to work. Granted I’m edgy, nervous and agitated, but I’m getting stuff done! For the first time in a month. I’m laughing again. I don’t want that to go away. I take ativan for when I’m really strung out. I used to struggle against taking them, because they can be addictive, but I won’t become addicted. I’m too careful and overthink everything. I’ll debate whether I should take an ativan for half an hour.
Would you take a pill if it made your life easier? That is the ultimate question. And the answer, for me, for now, is yes. I need to quieten the jumble of anxiousness in my head, so I can rest. My mind races and races and races, like the proverbial guinea pig in the wheel, and I just need it to stop sometimes. So I take an ativan or a clonazepam and it stops, temporarily. It’s my saving grace right now. So I don’t go completely mad.
In two more weeks I see my GP and hear what the psychiatrist recommends. Asshole couldn’t tell me and save me some grief? For fuck’s sake. I’m anxious enough, let’s just wait some more.
My mood is frustrated but hopeful. Being pissed is better than being sad. The wellbutrin is starting to work. My therapist had “graduated” me to seeing him every two weeks, an improvement over weekly. I have hope, even though trying to figure out meds and moods and symptoms and reactions is exhausting.