Skip to main content

Suppose I Kept on Singing Love Songs

So...met my psychiatrist today. He wasn't Doctor Melfi, but he was nice. A little arrogant. Hey, what psychiatrist isn't? Seriously, I think arrogance 101 is part of their residency training. Anyway, he's nice and confident and his office has a very, very nice view. Plus, I'll probably see him fifteen minutes once every month/six weeks. So, yeah. The only thing that was weird was that he sat at his desk and typed up pretty much everything I said. I'm glad he's taking notes, but what happened to note pads and quiet nods and "mhmm"s and eye contact? He did make some eye contact and he did have to urge me on a few times, but you know, it's hard to think about what I am telling you over the sound of you typing up everything I'm telling you. Maybe he never learned shorthand in medical school. Anyway, it's not a big deal. 
What is a big deal is that I went at all. I've basically been in denial for most of my life about my "psych" issues (I don't know what to call them) and going to an actual MD and telling him to put me on a drug is kind of a big deal. So big that after, I really don't feel that great at all. I'm kind of...bummed. I mean, it's good that I am getting through to the root of my issues and trying to work them out; and it's good that I am agreeing to try medication, especially since I've done SO WELL without it. I just...I don't like who I am today and I don't think anyone else does and frankly, I kind of feel like no one ever will. 
Now, don't get started, I know it's irrational thinking. I know it's not true. But it sure feels true. 
I thought that you were supposed to leave these things feeling better, not...whatever it is that I'm feeling. I'm anxious I guess. Hence the psychotherapy. 
He told me he thinks I have OCD. He actually said he felt it was more OCD than Asperger's, telling me that the OCD can explain the social issues because I over think and over analyze everything. And, I suppose maybe that is true, but I am not going to disregard my ideas about Asperger's based on his opinion. I have only seen him once and he is not an Asperger's doctor. Anxiety, and OCD as well, tends to go hand-in-hand with Asperger's. We didn't really talk about it, and the talking we did do about it wasn't that in-depth or well articulated (I was nervous). And, anyway, I am not worrying about nailing down an Asperger's diagnosis. RIght now I just want to feel better. Less nervous, not so anxious, no longer afraid of everything. I want to start there, and build up if I need to work on more.
I'm sure he would agree with that plan.
So, it's Prozac. I know, big name. It's even what Tony Soprano takes. Look at me, I'm just like Tony Soprano! You know, without the murder and stuff. I'm really nervous to take it. I don't want to fuck up my already fucked up chemistry and I don't want to be sick or dizzy or drowsy or get fatter or get sadder or mess up at work or mess up at school or jump off a bridge. I think I am going to keep a journal--well, TRY to, because we know how good at doing that I am--of how my mood changes and how I feel each day. Call it my Prozac diary or whatever. I should be able to commit to writing a paragraph or so once a day--SHOULD. Hopefully that will help me track the changes so when I go back on the 25th of July I can tell him if it's working. I really hope I'll be able to tell if it's working. I really don't want to tack Cymbalta or anything else on to it. Here's hoping this works.
I was late to work because of my appointment and then I was sent home early because of a light schedule. That's alright with me. This morning was kind of emotionally draining, if only because I made it that way. Hopefully this afternoon will be less so. Of course, you know, I have school so no guarantees on that.
The good news today--I mean, none of this was BAD news, I just don't feel great about it--is that I have excellent health insurance and my happy pills are free. So, why not?
Here I go. Down the rabbit hole. Potentially into a life regulated by pills. And how isn't that supposed to make me nervous?

Just to Break My Fall

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I-5

On a chilly Sunday evening in mid-January, two young women rolled up to the TransAmerica Title Building on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon, just off Interstate 5, to clean the office. It was their usual Sunday job, though today they had gotten a bit of a late start, having to shower and stop for gas, so they didn't arrive to the business complex until after nine p.m. The office had wide, welcoming windows on every wall and, with the bright florescent lights flipped on, the effect was to create a fishbowl-like scene, the women bustling around in their duties like two busy, little fish. They'd left the door unlocked and entertained themselves by chatting to each other, the two of them best friends. They were Shari Hull, twenty-years-old and the daughter of the owner of the housekeeping company with which they were both employed, and Beth Wilmot, also twenty and a fairly recent transplant to Salem from Spokane, Washington. She'd come for work, and along with steady pay, she
2 comments
Read more

By the Barrel of a Silver Gun (I-5 Part Two)

In early February of 1981, authorities from Salem flew down the Interstate 5 corridor and assembled with detectives and law officials from northern California and southern Oregon. Each detective had a crime, or two, in their jurisdiction matching a particular modus operandi , and the list of incidents just kept growing. When they gathered, they had no idea the scope of the mystery they were unraveling or just far it was going to reach. It started with a robbery. On December 9, 1980, in Vancouver, Washington, a gas station was held up at gun point, the female attendant left alone in the store. A man entered wearing a brown coat and a fake beard. He demanded cash and brandished a small, silver gun to prove he was serious. The cashier obliged.  A few days later, in Eugene, Oregon, on December thirteenth, a Baskin-Robbins was robbed by a man holding a silver gun and wearing a fake beard and a band aid across his nose.  In Albany, Oregon, a drive-in was hit on December fou
2 comments
Read more

Wah Mee Massacre

On a chilly February night, five days after the start of the Chinese New Year, 1983, three young men walked into one of the most renowned, high-stakes gambling dens in the heart of Seattle's Chinatown International District and walked away with thousands of dollars of cash in their pockets and fourteen lives hanging in the balance in their wake.  The club was the Wah Mee, a sixty-year-old casino and bar that catered exclusively to Chinese clientele and hosted the highest-stakes illegal gambling in the Pacific Northwest. The men were 22-year-old Kwan Fai "Willie" Mak, 20-year-old Benjamin Ng, and 25-year-old Wai Chiu "Tony" Ng.  Willie Mak was born in Kwangtung Province in mainland China and immigrated to the US with his family in 1975 when he was fifteen. By 22, Willie was a high school drop out, working various jobs in and around Seattle, and had a penchant for gambling. He was well-known in the International District gambling clubs, including the Wah Me
2 comments
Read more