About Me

My photo
Follow me on Facebook
Things I believe: There are no coincidences. There are no accidents. Everything is symbolic. Everything is relative. We're all a little crazy. "The truth is out there." There *is* something greater than us, only it's probably not other than us; it's more likely deep inside us. "The universe is shaped exactly like the earth, if you go straight long enough you end up where you were." (There's a Modest Mouse quote for almost every situation.) "All you need is love." (And food, things you enjoy and, occasionally, medication) That which doesn't kill us doesn't kill us. Breathe. Anyway you can. As long as you can.


Until it's not

After weeks of psyching myself out over having to see a psychiatrist, a thing I've managed to avoid for over two years, I woke up today and begrudgingly got out of bed. I put on the new, bright yellow shiny-happy, literally smiley pair of underwear I bought just yesterday in an attempt to cheer myself up. They're out of character, but then I wish I was too. They were meant to be some sort of armor or perhaps, as this girl would say, "smile therapy".

Don't try and tell me I'm misusing the word "literally" because the fucking panties have a yellow smiley face on the left hip. I'd show you a picture but I'm not that kind of girl. You'll have to take my word for it.

Regardless, I put the happy fucking panties on and covered them with my worn-in favorite jeans and a tricot black tee. This is, not coincidentally, the same outfit I wore yesterday but I didn't wear it yesterday. The pants are identical to the ones I wore and the shirt is identical to the one I wore because it's my favorite outfit and I have 4 pairs of those jeans and 2 shirts that match perfectly, not to mention the three or four others that are only slightly different. I wore those outfits two days in a row (a first for me) because I never worry about how I look in them. They're my go-to outfits when everything else makes me self conscious. Not usually to this extreme but I've been REAL fucking self conscious lately. This is a common issue when I'm in the middle of an anxious period. They come in clusters. Perhaps a negative version of the shiny/happy hypomania I typically enjoy.

I know I'm in the weeds when I can't find anything to wear in the mornings. I'm starting to bottom out.

In case I'm losing you here, I'll just say, I was trying to gear myself up. I didn't want to go. I don't want to take Lamictal. I don't want to NEED to take anything yet I am taking Lamictal and I'm still telling myself it's not worth it here. No one needs me. No one would notice if I disappeared. Even if I come out of this, it will come back and I'm tired of fighting. I'm aware that none of that is logical. I might humor the ugly demons of my dark side but I doubt them, for now. The problem is if you listen to anything long enough you'll start to believe it. Hence asking for medication in the first place. I'm starting to believe.

I've been through some pretty heavy shit. It started when I was really young and I wasn't allowed to worry about me or show that anything was wrong. Being in a family with an addict as a mother, it was my job to not only become the woman of the house, but to keep everything calm. Keep it all a secret. She needed to be taken care of and protected. No one told me it wasn't my fault. No one told me it wasn't normal or wasn't supposed to be my job. My point is (and I apologize for all of the background here - I'm doing 75 in a 25 today) I take care of shit and I hide problems well. Usually. I didn't want to go into that office after they spent hours and hours picking my brain and rifling through the skeletons in my closet so they could label me as any number of things, all equating to crazy. I didn't want to hear that there's nothing wrong with my brain except my brain itself and that this is all psychosomatic. I was afraid of being judged a fucking nutjob, given a script for lithium and no longer trusted to make my own decisions but the medication I'm taking isn't enough and my head is screwed up. Worst than ever. We're talking a life history of shit banged around in a skull banged around in a car banged around on the road. There's some real damage, physical and otherwise.

I'm not always like this. I don't like being like this. I don't CHOOSE being like this. It comes in waves. I reach crisis once in a great while and typically pull myself right back out of it, even if that means taking a mood stabilizer for a few weeks until I steer back to a productive, enjoyable state. But I am like this and I'm asking for help, I just don't want someone else trying control of my life. Help me. Don't judge me or treat me like a child. Yeah right.

Then I drank a couple cups of coffee. A couple actually means two in this case. I waited uneasily for my ex-husband to show up and take the boy for his turn. He was supposed to call as soon as he woke up and drive to get little man first thing in the morning. He didn't call. At 10am, I woke him up. He was "running late". Then, my neighbor (and sweet girl I adore) sent me a text asking if I could give her a ride to work around the same time we were supposed to leave. No problem.

But it was a problem. The ex didn't show up until we were supposed to be leaving, the neighbor wasn't ready until after she was supposed to be at work and we were not only going somewhere I didn't want to go or look like a basket case for, we were late in doing so. We got about two miles from home before I had to pull over and let Herbert drive because the stress and hubbub of trying to get out of the house caused a flare of vertigo and I couldn't fucking see straight. In front of the neighbor. In front of my husband. So much for keeping it together. Unluckily for me, my husband was going with me anyway (in case I felt like this after my appointment) and was able to drive the rest of the way so I still had no excuse to cancel.

It would have been better to stay at home. I spent the whole hour trip there clutching a barf bag,  unable to look out the window and wanting to jump out of the car. My husband kept telling me to calm down. Oh, thanks. That's all I need to do. I forgot.

We arrived 25 minutes early so I used the bathroom without making eye contact with any of the staff and went back outside to sit with Herbert in the shade and try to calm the fuck down. He didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. All the usual methods had failed. Benadryl, visualizations, deep breathing, even chocolate... Nothing helped. I tried laying across some rocks and putting my head on his lap - still with the spins, still wanting to crawl out of my skin - and I tried to use his presence to settle me down. It worked for a few seconds at a time but was repeatedly interrupted by feeling we had to leave or him reminding me we needed to go in soon.

Once 1:10 rolled up, we went inside. I signed in and tried my best NOT to pace the floor. I tried not to freak out. You know that thing that happens when you try not to laugh? Yeah. That happened. I managed not to hyperventilate and I managed not to cry (in the building, anyway) until I finally got called into the conference room. That's the big room people in the waiting room watch because there's nothing else to stare at aside from the girls behind the desk. There's one of those long, rectangular windows on the door and usually (when I'm in the waiting room) one can clearly see the faces and expressions of 2-4 people sitting at a large table. It's not a room I wanted to go into. I didn't want to see the one doctor. I really didn't like the idea of two doctors, though I'd been warned the doc who did my neuropsychiatric evaluation might "drop in". There were three fucking doctors in there. It was also not the best time to be in a crowd. Two of the faces were new. One knew too much about me.

They steered me to the seat facing the waiting room. Head hurting, wanting to throw up, ready to beg them to send me to the ER so it could all stop, I sat down. I couldn't even talk. I cried and muttered a few words about anxiety and I'm-never-like-this and I-don't-want-to-be-here but they just sat calmly and politely asked if I'd like them to turn off the light and would I like anything to eat. Are you fucking kidding me? I had already almost puked trying to swallow the dark chocolate I'd taken from the counter in an attempt to make my self feel better! There they were on lunch! WTF?

I tried to explain to them that I was freaking the fuck out because I was totally overwhelmed, sick of all of this and how the room spinning didn't help a goddam thing. I tried desperately to be polite. I used words much more subtle than these. They were very calm and tried to soothe me. One of them offered me coffee. Comforting, warm coffee. Decaf please, I don't think I can handle the real stuff right now. My mouth was so dry I put chapstick on 8 times, as she so gracefully pointed out later. I really needed water but couldn't think straight enough to put the shit in my mouth instead of playing OCD with my blue tube of lip stuff. What an idiot. The harder you try not to look psychotic, the more you really do.

After a while, the benadryl started working and I decided they weren't letting me leave until we'd reached the quota of questions and answers they had predetermined so I started talking. I don't remember a lot of what was said because as much of me as I could sneak away was off thinking of other things and how they were really not going to be very helpful, considering the whole scenario. I don't think they're bad people, I just know it is their job to "help" by labeling and medicating me and I wasn't really up for those today. Tomorrow wouldn't be so great either.

They asked about family history. I don't know a lot of it and what I know isn't great.
They asked about my childhood. Nonexistent, for the most part.
They asked about work. Seriously? It all kind of sucks.
I wasn't saying that to complain. I told them because they asked.
They asked about lots of stuff and all I could say is I've been dealing with a lot of shit for a long fucking time and I do it (mostly) without drugs, I'm terrified of "becoming my mother" and becoming addicted to painkillers and I just want to feel better. Once I started feeling more comfortable, I confessed that I had assumed they were the kind of doctors who would half listen, nod and start scribbling some side-effect causing zombie drugs for me. One doc laughed, thanked me for my honesty and confessed that she was sorry she assumed I would be a drug seeker. I laughed that off and admitted the profile. Tattoos, fucked up childhood, family history... Except, because I've watched everyone die from that shit, I'm extra careful with drugs, unless... you know, I'm trying to kill myself or something. It happens.

Then they wrote me four scripts anyway. They didn't ask about the depression. They didn't say anything about me wanting to kill myself. Apparently anxiety is my biggest problem (these are real "Big Picture People", huh?). I need to chill the fuck out. I just need more sleep. Sleep will decrease the anxiety, lowered anxiety will make my head hurt less, causing less depression, etc. Bonus: one of the migraine medications is used for bipolar disorder, one of the sleep medications is an antidepressant. Hmm... They never came right out and listed any diagnosis although they did say I should be tested for Lupus as I've "got several signs of it" and my mom had it. Great. I'd rather not, thank you very much. As "drug/attention-seeking" and "malingering" as some people may assume I am, I DON'T *want* that shit and if I have it I don't want to know.
I don't really know where I was going with all of this. Guess I just needed to put it out there. I am neurotic as fuck right now and I don't know who else to talk to. If I told these people how I really feel, they'd either tell me I'm wrong or lock me up with a "hug me" jacket on. Fuck that. Next time I'll just take a valium, walk in there and tell them everything is fine. Until it's not.

No comments:

Post a Comment