Today was my first visit to a mental health specialist.
The first hour was spent answering all sorts of uncomfortable questions that are being asked by a very large man with tight clothes and a soft spoken, sexy whisper voice. I hate the fact that there are several Kleenex boxes on the desk, indicating you will have no choice in the matter when it comes to crying while opening your thoughts to someone. You can go in there planning to be the toughest lil cookie, and once you see the tissues on the table your morale drops and you realize you're someone else's punk for the next hour.
After making sure you've cried and made your face look like you got punched by a depressed kangaroo, they scoot you back into the excessively packed waiting area while the doctor analyzes your file and gets ready to meet with you. Great. I sit out there are red from crying and clutching my tissues for dear life; of course, it's awkward and quiet. I tweeted my thoughts on the 'tests' I took. My initial analysis was that, as suspected, I am insane. Smart, yes, but still insane.
Long story short. I'm on antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills and sleeping pills. He told me a few ideas of what might be wrong with me. Now I'm even more depressed.
Looks like I paid $30.00 to feel a bit worse.
No comments:
Post a Comment