Yesterday was my first visit to see a psychiatrist, after many years of wading through depression (and now anxiety) primarily on my own. It was a disaster.
But, first, let me give you a little background for context.
Sometime between fifteen and twenty years ago, I was married to my first husband-a man somewhere between "Meh" and Prince Philip (my current mind's douche canoe-thanks, Netflix's The Crown). I had undergone a hysterectomy before the age of thirty, partly because of terrible endometriosis, partly because I was married to an asshole who thought lying around in abject agony was actually laziness. I had also finally started teaching (several years after graduating) because life had just shaken out that way. I found myself more and more unhappy, and making a list that grew longer everyday of things that could change and then I would be happy. Ding, ding, ding...they weren't going to change. So, I had to change how I responded to them. Long story short-I needed medication to do this.
*Side note-if you get diagnosed with depression and begin taking medication and keep it a secret from your husband (that you already kind of think is a Prince Philip), you may want to do some reflection upon said marriage.*
Okay, so that's the depression diagnosis.
Forward several years. We are now divorced, have various BAD THINGS happen with the career, experience empty nest times two, have to put a dog down that we've had for eighteen years (probably not germane, but I loved that damn dog), and am about to get fired from a bad situation at a new job (they ended up closing the whole program, so it was't that I did something, it was just stressful). Oh, yeah, and I had a shitty childhood (obligatory origin story). So, one day, my husband comes in and asks if I'm going to work. I lose it. I explain to him I can't move. I can't get out of bed. I tell him he needs to call the doctor, because I literally can't picture a situation where I can see myself getting out of bed ever again on my own power. So, there's the anxiety diagnosis.
And, this fall, we have had five friends or family members commit suicide, which has been one of the hardest seasons of my life. And, my doctor retired. And my new doctor left the practice. So I finally surrendered, and called to make an appointment with a psychiatrist-primarily to make sure I was taking the most effective medications, but also because, hey, I'm drowning and need someone to throw me a rope.
So, I call. I explain that I am making an appointment with a psychiatrist because I need someone to help me with medication. It is very important to the story that I make that clear. First thing I said-MEDICATION. I get an appointment. No instructions, just an appointment and the name of the "doctor" it is with. I look up on the internet, and it turns out it is not a doctor, but I decide I won't be an elitist, and let it ride.
So, yesterday, I walk in the door...
Continued in part 2