I Hate the Doctor’s Office

I feel as transparent as a blue sky on a cool, windy day.  The doctor asks me all kinds of open-ended questions and I answer them as best I can; my words caress his ear for a fleeting moment before they fly off into space.  I doubt he really hears me or the desperation in my voice because he is bent over odious in scribbling for his life (or my life rather) on a prescription pad.  One after another, small rectangles come jetting off of the small blue pad and each time I hear that terrible tearing sound, I feel as if I were being poked by a cattle prod.   My spine stiffens and I clumsily readjust myself in my annoying chair and take a deep breath.   The prescriptions laid out on the desk seem to mock me.  The doctor lines them up and says,                                                                                                         “Okay, take these as directed and I’ll see you in a month.”                                                        Ok, I think to myself, but… what’s wrong with me? That is why I came here, not to treat my symptoms but to find out the problem. I look helplessly at the doctor, exhausted, frustrated, and then worst of black feelings- alone. I impatiently ask the doctor what his diagnoses is and he states simply,                                  “You are Bipolar II and have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, make an appointment with the front desk, I will see you next month. Feel better”                                                    His desk seems like a giant canyon, separating and dividing us.  I’m looking to the opposite rim grasping for help with trembling emotions.  Some meandering sentences escape his lips as I see he is already elbow deep into his next appointment’s file:  something that unfortunately, my only option for treatment is to take medications which have serious side effects, mind altering consequences, are expensive, and must be taken regularly.  I have always held out hope that someday I would out-grow or leave my war on reality behind me. But here I am in my mid-twenties stuck in the so-familiar black hole that always seems to swallow me up.  Maybe in time I will find a doctor that cares more about the patient and not just for his/her prescription pad, and find a way to heal the heart, along with the mind and body. My diagnosis was no more than a routine appointment for him, yet it affected every day of my life thereafter.  The Doctor could have spared an expensive two minutes to look me in the eye and introduce himself.

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About RyanC

I have no answers...just lessons learned from mistakes
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