Before the Visit

I made an appointment to see my doctor. It’s this morning and I’m not looking forward to it. I guess that’s normal. Who looks forward to seeing their doctor? Most people don’t. In fact, they likely dread it. Like me this morning. I’m particularly anxious about seeing him this time. He’s a good doctor. A nice guy. He often looks distracted, has his blinders up, which I’m sure serves a purpose in his line of work. He grew up close to my grandparents’ farm, now my family farm since my grandparents are both dead, but I still call it my grandparents’ farm from childhood days. I feel a closeness to him for that reason. I understand some of his mannerisms and ways of speaking. He has kind eyes when he wants to show them. I haven’t seen his eyes soften with me in awhile. Not since before I had my son. It also seems to depend on what I am seeing him for. He’s my son’s doctor as well. I’m actually quite lucky to have him. Not everyone has a doctor. I have that going for me.

Today I am seeing him for my mood and how I can’t seem to contain my anger. I’m not sure how much to tell him. Best to just stick the facts and not any nitty-gritty bits of my story. That will make it easier all around. I don’t put much stock in psychotropic medication even though I know it helps with mental health. It serves a purpose. It provides stability, not healing. It will not cure the cause or solve problems. But I hope it will give me a leg-up and some relief. That’s what I’m aiming for. That’s what is needed right now. Calm and stability.

I’m already taking an antidepressant. I started it after I finished breastfeeding my son. That was about 6 years ago. Before that I was on a different medication during my pregnancy, and before that, different meds. Some helpful, some not so much. Depression and anxiety have been issues throughout my life. I have had periods of time when I was doing ok and not on medication. Mostly though, since 16, I’ve been taking an antidepressant. I don’t like it, but have learned to cope with side effects and accept that it’s needed.

After the Visit

The appointment happened. I think it went well despite some discomfort and having to complete a form that is really only meant for a doctor to fill out but the dirty work was passed along to me. I guess they don’t pay doctors that much to do this part. Whatever.

First, the medication I am taking hasn’t changed but the dosage is going up. Doubling, in fact. Yay. Not really. I am not crazy about this whatsoever but figure it is necessary. I will follow the recommendation and adjust. Ugh.

Surprisingly, my doctor started off the visit by showing me the medical form from Homewood Health Centre. He received it after I finished the intake last Thursday, which impressed me. The intake worker is on the ball. I used to work the same when I was working. Referrals were always responsive, mindful that the timing of linkage was so important, especially for services for mental health, trauma recovery and addiction. People frequently change their minds, lose hope, etc. after reaching out for help initially. Fast action is necessary before the window of time and motivation closes and life goes back to status quo – the chaotic and familiar normal. Anyway, I took it as reassurance that Homewood was the right choice.

My doctor was attentive and efficient. He listened as I gave a Coles notes version of the fallout from the past year. He sympathized. He typed his notes. He was concise with his words. He managed his time effectively. He’s been here, done that before for other patients. At the end of ten minutes, he gave me the form to fill-out in reception with instruction to hand it in to the receptionists. Sure, no problem.

Glancing at the form, I see that it is quite formal and really not meant for a patient to complete. My anxiety spikes. Great. I feel a surge of resentment and a fleeting thought to rebelliously check off all the mental health conditions as “current” and indicate that I was recently hospitalized. You know, just to screw him over. But it wouldn’t be him suffering as a result. I’d be screwing myself. As fun as going deviant sounds, that wouldn’t be smart. One of the boxes to check is an indication of self-harming behaviours. I’ve been skin-picking. Is that a form of self-harm? Ya, that counts. Sigh. I put it down as such. Immediately feel the shame of it but let it go. I’ve got nothing left to hide. I hand the form in to one of the receptionists, who asks me if I want to keep the original. No, I’m good, thanks. Ugh.