Saw the psychiatrist today.
My dad insisted on taking me to lunch beforehand. We finished right before my appointment, so we rushed over to the address I had written down.
When I arrived, I was completely panicked and the wait in the lobby was torturous. I slipped into the women’s restroom and purged.
After what felt like hours fidgeting in the waiting room, I was called back for vitals. I wasn’t aware they were going to take my vitals. My panic rose. Had I known I would be weighed, I never would have eaten lunch.
I then met with the psychiatrist. It was a long appointment, almost 2 hours. I hated it. I hate talking about myself. I hate talking about the past. I hate trying to explain my thinking and mood and psychoses.
He asked about all my past treatment, about all my self-harm and suicide attempts, about every medication I’ve ever been prescribed, about things I’ve never even thought about.
He wants me back in treatment. Or, in his words, “long-term counseling with a treatment team”.
I hate the idea. I more than hate the idea. However, I told him I would give it a try.
