So, I went to the doctor yesterday.
Although honestly, I use the term “doctor” very loosely. A very nice drug dealer would probably be more appropriate.
I sat in that little room with my husband absolutely terrified. I’m not sure of what. I guess I was afraid that they wouldn’t help, that they wouldn’t believe me. The idea of having to explain to someone what was “wrong with me” was overwhelmingly.
She walked in the room and asked, “why are you here?” I tried the best I could to put it into words, because “I’m depressed” sounded so – not right. I didn’t want to sound like I had diagnosed myself. I wanted to tell her what I was feeling and have her diagnose me. I needed her to tell me it wasn’t all in my head – that I wasn’t overreacting or being over dramatic. I started to cry.
“So, you want me to give you some medication for this?”
Um. OK. I probably should have been thrilled. I wanted help. This is what I wanted – a little pill that would make it all go away. But instead of feeling like I was facing my problems and working on a solution, I felt like I was standing before a vending machine throwing one old wives’ tale remedy after another at it.
She wrote on her clipboard and got up as if she was getting ready to leave.
“Wait, wait. How do you know what kind of medicine to give me? Aren’t there different kinds of anti-depressants? What about the attacks I’m having now? I can’t live like this for another four weeks – are there short term options? What about side effects? Shouldn’t you be telling me about side effects?”
In roughly five minutes I was on my out of the little white room. I had two prescriptions in hand, two sample bottles, and a half-assed assurance that “I don’t think there’s any side effects for that one – the other one will make you drowsy probably.” My head was spinning and I felt like something had just gone by a lot faster than it should have and not at all the way it was supposed to.
We got in the car and my husband suggested I find a new doctor, but commended me for finding a dealer so easily.
I should be relieved. I have a two week sample of Cymbalta and 20 tablets of Xanax (well, generic Xanax because that’s how I roll). I have a prescription for 6 months of the Cymbalata “if it works out”.
I should be relieved. But I’m kind of disappointed. I’m wishing my husband hadn’t been there because I feel like now he can see that this is all in my head. He has proof now that pretty much anyone can walk into a doctor and say “give me this” and they’ll scrawl their name on a script and send you on your way for the low, low cost of $35.
On the bright side – I’ve got the drugs. Hopefully this will help. And while I don’t really want to take Xanax (it will make you sleepy – oh, that’s lovely, since my preferred coping mechanism is to go to fucking sleep!) – at least I know I have it. If it gets really, really bad – I have something I can hang on to.
I woke up Saturday morning with the weight of the world and a disappointing trip to Disney on my shoulders. And I told myself “you just have to get through this day. Just get through the next 20 minutes for the rest of the day.” I promised myself if I would just get that far that by Monday, I wouldn’t have to hang on by myself any longer.
And yeah, it may have come in the form of a nice Latina drug dealer instead of a warm and comforting consultation. But I made it through Saturday. And I’ve got something, if not everything I’d wished for.
I have hope.