The appointment with Dr. C, the psychiatrist I saw more than three months ago, did not go well. I hadn’t realized that we would have only 37 minutes to talk. I barely managed to tell her how wrong she was about her previous diagnosis and to fill her in on my diagnostic and therapeutic adventures since our last meeting. When I finally asked if she could prescribe an antidepressant for me, she announced that there wasn’t time for that and that I should make another appointment.
So I got no prescription, no useful advice, and pretty much no respect. Leaving her office, I decided that it was time to give up on the mental-health establishment and seriously work on healing myself. I may be able to manage with just the levothyroxine that my PCP prescribed for me last week (as soon as it stops making me anxious and sleepless). Or maybe I’ll go back to taking escitalopram, perhaps at a higher dose than the one that left me suicidal.
Of course I would prefer to stay (relatively) drug-free. I hate making my fellow creatures ingest chemicals they never asked for. But I must face the fact that the best years of my life were the ones when I was artificially stabilized. Sorry, fish. Just be glad I no longer eat you (hmm, maybe if I did I could get the benefit of drugs without a prescription).