I saw my brand new shiny therapist/psychiatrist on Monday.
I was very glad to find her in an emergency, and well, I was having an emergency. July was just not going to be good enough to wait for the other guy, so I kicked him to the curb, as you do with psychiatrists.
Being me, by Saturday I thought I felt better (that was after I had made the appointment.)
By Sunday I thought I was miraculously healed, so did not really need to see a doctor, and was totally over-reacting by making this appointment. I mean, really! Of course I am fine. Never been better, in actual fact.
I usually get instantly cured the minute I sit in a doctor’s waiting room, and alway feel a bit sheepish going inside to tell them I am ill, when really I am fine, really, and I am sorry to be wasting your time, and try to leave as quickly as I can.
Then Connor chewed pork rind in my ear on Sunday afternoon, and I went a bit postal.
I was really glad I had Monday’s appointment scheduled. Really glad, as I felt I had been hanging on by what ever you hang on with when your nails have been pulled from your finger nail beds. Bloody stumps I would hazard a guess.
If you have not been to a therapist before, I won’t bore you with too much detail.
The short of it is that you spend an hour sitting around talking about yourself, while someone writes furiously and goes “uh huh” quite a bit. Almost like a first date, just you pay by the hour here and no one is buying you drinks, to get you in the mood.
It is inevitable that you will cry – a great deal – even when you chew the inside of your lip to stop yourself crying.
I tend to find reasons why not to like someone. That way all I have to do is to wait until I find “the thing” and then I can go “see, I knew I did not like you…”
I found it hard not to like Dr D even if just a little bit. Not because she was not adorably cute or brilliant, I found her sincere and familiar, and human. And well, just real …
She reminded me of a person who I chat to on a forum (and who I have met in real life) who goes by the avatar, Lo**F – which was strange, but oddly familiar.
A few strange things occured in the hour.
I was talking about something else totally, and out of the blue she goes “When did your father die?”
I stopped talking as I think I was talking about lemon meringue pie ior something, and I said “You know that is a bit out of left field right?”
And she said “Yes it was…” and then smiled and repeated the question: “So when did your father die?”
I told her the year, and she sort of looked at me, smiled slightly and carried on writing whilst I continued to tell her about Lemon Meringue pie.
She asked me something and I explained my religious belief system and my sense of spirituality.
Both of which I can summarise politely as being somewhat “barren and lacking in an anchor” at this stage in my life.
She stopped me and said “you are making me very anxious right now…”
I looked at her and I said: “You know I am the patient and you are the doctor. I am panicky and anxious, and well …. it is not helping that you are getting anxious …. it is not helping me. You know that right?”
Dr D: “Yes, but you are making me anxious, and I needed to take a breath before you carried on to centre myself and to reduce my anxiety that you are causing in me.”
She asked me if I would like on the doctor’s bed thing – I was sitting in the leather wing backed chair at the time.
I asked why and she said she wanted to help me relax and try to panic less. I told her lying on a bed behind a screen in a stranger’s office was not going to make me panic less or relax.
I asked her what exactly she was going to be doing while I was lying there.
She said she was not going to touch me. But was going to put her hands above me, to assist me and transfer some of her calm energy to me (or something like that.) – I think she said Reiki. I asked if it mattered whether I believed in what she was doing, or whether it was okay I just lay there with my eyes closed.
She suggested it might help if I believed her, but lying there was fine too.
I said that she was making me deeply sceptical about this entire process, but if she wanted me to have a 5 minute lie down on her table, then that was fine, as long as she did not physically touch me and I could leave my shoes on.
I lay on the bed, closed my eyes, listened to my heart racing and the rather LOUD ticking of the wall clock. I did not get calmer or more relaxed, but that might have been because the receptionist kept buzzing through that her next appointment had arrived.
Our time together came to an end.
We had spoken at length that I was not a fan of medication and had “gone it alone” for some time, and at about the time that she was congratulating on my “not taking medication” stand point.
I interrupted her (as I knew she had another appointment waiting) and said: “But today is not that day. I need a script, and I want a script today – I can come again and we can chat again another day. But today I need a script! I don’t care what you put on the script actually, as long as it reduces my anxiety and panic, as long as it makes me sleep through the night.”
She is writing out the script and goes, in a sort of by-the-by voice “Are you suicidal?”
I look at her, well, like she is crazy actually, and I go “The right answer is no, right?” She hands me my script (granted only with enough meds for two weeks) and I skipped to the chemist.
No doubt I will be seeing her soon.