I went to the psychiatrist today. Overall, it was....well...it was an experience. I have been terrified of taking meds from the beginning. This fear has fueled my anxiety towards the psychiatry visit. I was cool, calm, and collected as I pulled into the parking lot. I was calm and confident as I opened the door to the building, but the moment I entered the waiting room panic welled up inside me. "Fuck, I'm really hear," I thought. The initial process was no different from any other doctor's office. I filled out the intake paperwork and had my vitals taken. I was then sent back to the waiting room. A few minutes later I was called back to the "exam" room and my panic continued to grow.
My therapist had been very insistent that I see the actual psychiatrist. I would have been so much more comfortable if I had seen the psychiatrist. Instead, I saw the nurse practitioner. I have nothing against nurses, and I know they have a lot of knowledge. However, I think when a patient makes an appointment to specifically see a PSYCHIATRIST that patient should be with the psychiatrist. Other than the continuously growing panic inside me, the appointment was fairly standard. "Why are you here; what are your symptoms; etc." I tell her everything that has been going on with me lately and the reason I am in the office. Deep breath. "I am interested in medication because being manic has started to impact my work and school performance." She says she has an idea of what she wants to try me on and leaves the room.
She returns and hands me a pamphlet for Vraylar. I look over it and she asks what I think. I put it down and at this point I let her know that I am terrified to start taking medication. She says she understands, but I don't think she does. Healthy people never do. Depressed people never do. We have a brief conversation about my fears. She tries to assure me that the medication won't do what I'm scared of. It doesn't work. I take the pamphlet, the samples, and the coupon. I never see the psychiatrist. I make an appointment for two weeks out. I get to my car and am somewhere between balling and a panic attack. I feel sick to my stomach.
I spend most of the day alternating between wanting to cry and wanting to vomit. In my mind, taking this pill is death. I am killing part of myself, and no one seems to understand this. Finally, that evening I calm down enough to take the pill. I start to feel tired. I question if this is real or if this is the pill. How will I ever know? I dejectedly eat pumpkin pie and then go to bed.
My therapist had been very insistent that I see the actual psychiatrist. I would have been so much more comfortable if I had seen the psychiatrist. Instead, I saw the nurse practitioner. I have nothing against nurses, and I know they have a lot of knowledge. However, I think when a patient makes an appointment to specifically see a PSYCHIATRIST that patient should be with the psychiatrist. Other than the continuously growing panic inside me, the appointment was fairly standard. "Why are you here; what are your symptoms; etc." I tell her everything that has been going on with me lately and the reason I am in the office. Deep breath. "I am interested in medication because being manic has started to impact my work and school performance." She says she has an idea of what she wants to try me on and leaves the room.
She returns and hands me a pamphlet for Vraylar. I look over it and she asks what I think. I put it down and at this point I let her know that I am terrified to start taking medication. She says she understands, but I don't think she does. Healthy people never do. Depressed people never do. We have a brief conversation about my fears. She tries to assure me that the medication won't do what I'm scared of. It doesn't work. I take the pamphlet, the samples, and the coupon. I never see the psychiatrist. I make an appointment for two weeks out. I get to my car and am somewhere between balling and a panic attack. I feel sick to my stomach.
I spend most of the day alternating between wanting to cry and wanting to vomit. In my mind, taking this pill is death. I am killing part of myself, and no one seems to understand this. Finally, that evening I calm down enough to take the pill. I start to feel tired. I question if this is real or if this is the pill. How will I ever know? I dejectedly eat pumpkin pie and then go to bed.
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