Doctors. Love ’em, loathe ’em, need ’em just the same. Or is that lawyers?
Anyway, today I found myself sitting in one of those oh-so-comfy exam room chairs waiting for him to appear, all the while squirming like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office, my blood pressure spiking and ticking off the minutes of my life I’d never get back. Tell me again why I had to be on time? At least I’d not been forced to don a paper gown. Good times.
After what felt like an hour, but was probably closer to fifty-eight minutes, there’s a knock and in he walked. I like this guy. He’s personable and doesn’t speak to me like he’s come down from on high to mingle with the hoi polloi. All is forgiven for making me wait.
‘What brings me in?’
And this is where it ceases to be funny.
Well, let’s see. I can’t focus; everything and everyone pisses me off; one breath brings fire, the other blubbering. I almost had a meltdown watching a woman write out a check at the grocery store. (Who the hell does that anymore, btw?). Summed up: I’d like to kick ass and scarf down chocolate bars all day. Can I do that simultaneously?
‘Is my appetite affected?’
I smile. The one I give to people who don’t know you don’t have to scream into a cell phone for the person on the other end to hear you.
Seriously, doc, are you looking at me? He smiles back.
As someone with a history of depression, I watch out for these kinds of things, let them fester, give myself the pep talk, move on. The rinse and repeat of brain chemistry. It will never go away. I’m also unmedicated and unsupervised. Something seems amiss here.
Today I am here because I am done. I blame the check writer for pushing me over the edge, but in all seriousness I know that isn’t it. It’s things I won’t go into here. But you get the drift.
He sits there, looking slightly alarmed, nodding and hmm-ing at various intervals. I’m never sure if this is my cue to shut up now or keep going, but I’m on a roll.
‘Am I suicidal?’
No, but if I could choose how to go I’d like to keel over chowing down on something scrumptious from The Cheesecake Factory, m’kay?
At that, I smirk and say ‘well…on occasion’. He chuckles nervously and sits up a bit straighter, maybe in an effort to prepare to sprint for the exit if the occasion calls for it.
He proceeds with a mini seminar on dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin. Brakes and gas pedals, he calls them. I try to follow along without giving away the fact that my eyes are glazing over. He is blaming most of this on the fibro. Interesting.
At the end of it all (25 minutes! Score one for the patient! I actually got my copay’s worth.), I walked out much the same as when I walked in. Only with a prescription and instructions to walk five times a week and keep a journal.
So tonight I walked the neighborhood. One house sported a plethora of socks in the driveway. I’m left to assume this is the school-age equivalent of ladies shedding a brassiere as soon as they hit the door. At least I get inside first. There’s the fenced in dog who makes no bones about the fact he’d like to take a chunk out of me if given half the chance. And the fifteen cents I found after almost not stopping to stoop down. In this neck of the woods, shiny circular metal on the ground is usually redneck money i.e. washers. Score one for me!
Where am I going with all this? No clue. But if you’re feeling the same, don’t go it alone. Your mental health is important and mental illness in this country is approached with a keep-it-quiet attitude which is shitty.
In the meantime, I’ll try to find the humor here. I think the dachshund ate it. I’ll find it in the yard tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll find more money and in six months’ time, will have enough for a pack of gum.
It’s good to have goals.