Shadow, shadow, shadow
"Grounded" by Pavement
I know the medical world could knock you out
To sell the coins that you jayed last Thursday
Dine by candelight and hold your savings tight
You never, you never know
When the bridge falls apart
We spoke of latent causes sterile gauzes
And the bedside morale
We traipse around the table talking sentences
So incomplete, please! please!
Boys are dying on these streets
January 16, 2017 Monday 3:08 PM [Martin Luther King Jr. day]
I went to see a new psychiatrist today. He is the first Real Deal I've encountered. I mean, I sat in a leather chair across from his, like, mahogany desk. He had white hair, a black turtleneck, and thick black glasses. He was the stereotype. In-ter-esting.
I will call him Dr. Z, I guess. I spent about an hour and a half in his office, with him asking me questions about stuff. He was intimidating. I cried at some point, and he was all, "What are you thinking?"
I was like, "I don't know, I just don't like talking about it."
He said that I should be able to talk about it, and asked if I was working through this with Pat. I sort of said yes. Am I? I think so. But not really. I do a lot of ranting when I see Pat. I start getting teary-eyed when she says things like, "You're depressed," or, "That's anxiety." So I dunno. It's just overwhelming and I don't like it and does anyone else really hate me right now? What?
So yes, Dr. Z ended up telling me a couple of things I already knew:
1) I appear to have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Yes, yes...
2) I am depressed or something.
3) I clearly do not have bipolar disorder, contrary to what the other doctors thought 4 years ago
He also told me some things that I sort of knew. But I mean. They are things I don't really look at. Slanted eyes at the fact. He says I am too hard on myself. I have high expectations. He is probably right. But I dunno, those words are out of my reach. I don't feel as if I am treating myself the wrong way. I should "ease up," he says. Ease up how? I don't trust myself with "easing up." When I ease up, I let go completely. It's either this or I spend my life in a basement, a failure.
(She says, as if that is a perfectly sound and rational conclusion.)
Dr. Z also said that it seems I have been consistently depressed for the last five to six years. And he means without remission. As in I've just. Been depressed. It has fluctuated in its severity, but yes – depressed.
"I don't know about that," I said.
"You can't seem to remember a significant period of time in which you were happy," was his argument.
But I dunno. When I'm happy, I can't remember being sad. I think I was happy in September, and during the summer. Well actually, I remember feeling anxious that entire time, but I wasn't depressed. And before that... Jesus, I don't know. There were snippets of happiness. But I seem to remember a lot of horrible stress. God, did I really spend 5 years depressed? That's ridiculous. I want to sleep. I am so tired. God damn, that long? No. Whatever, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
The whole appointment was uncomfortable, but it at least felt professional. Dr. Z has prescribed me Lexapro – 5 mg for a week, and then up to 10 mg. He was surprised that no one had given me Lexapro or Prozac at any point previous, since they're supposed to work most consistently for my age group or somethin'. I am just kind of shocked at the low dosage for Lexapro. But then, I'm pretty sure Lexapro is addictive or something. Maybe I'm remembering wrong. That, and I know I'm on a pretttttyyy high dose of Wellbutrin. When you're being medicated in a mental hospital, they tend to crank the dosage up pretty quickly. In my experience, at least.
I'm so cold and tired. I don't want to go to school tomorrow. But I already haven't been to school since last Wednesday. I dunno, part way through the day, I was just hit with this "I can't do this anymore," type thought. I had my Brown interview, which went fine (the guy was older, but he was very, very pretty... never mind that he had a son older than me lol), and then I told my mom about not being able to go to school. She was understanding.
Then I had to talk to my dad, who was also understanding, but I still get very angry when talking about anything approaching mental illness, so it was a bit of a taxing conversation. I ended up not going to school on Friday either, and I felt much better about things until today. I've just dug up my old feelings and I don't know where to put them. I'm standing there with heavy arms and life is happening again. I can't do it.
Buuuuttt I have to. Now I just have to dream up an excuse as to why I wasn't in school for the last half of the week... I want something more believable than, "I was sick." I've been getting "sick" a lot.
Plus there's the dreaded exchange.
Are you feeling better?
Why, yes, thank you.
Got lots of sleep?
*weird chuckle* Oh, yes, it does wonders for your health doesn't it?
*polite laugh* Yes... well, welcome back!
Yeah, it's nice to be back! (No it's not)
Well, whatever, as long as I have a better excuse, all the following conversations should be easier to bear.
I had a headache. No, that's not good enough. I puked. No.... Hmm.
"Veronica, why were you absent for two days last week? Why are you absent so often?"
I will pluck my eyes out and chuck them at the school administrators. "That's why," I will say.
"Oh, well, all right."
They'll drop the eyeballs into my hands and I'll snap them back into place.
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