Medicated
We departed on Monday for a road trip through the Midwest: a couple of days in northern Indiana, a brief passing through Illinois and on into Wisconsin.
I have heard it said that spring in the Midwest consists of six non-consecutive days in May. None of those days, it seems, will happen while we are in traveling. We are nonetheless counting our blessings that snow is the only shitty weather condition not in the forecast for our tour.
We could not begin our adventure until late afternoon because I had an appointment at my new psychiatrist’s office. I took the first appointment offered to me weeks ago after my initial intake consultation because I have a touch of the crazy and it’s hard to get an appointment for that in Central Ohio.
Phil, whose patience with me seems boundless, had no problem with the delay. But one of the many triggers for my paralyzing anxiety is making someone wait.
I had plenty of time to ponder the irony of how stressful I find it to cause a delay while I waited 30 minutes past my appointment time to be called back to see the psych nurse.
She took my blood pressure and then began to ask questions the same questions I answered in the first appointment I had with the counselor. I answered as calmly as I could considering my brain was mourning the time that Phil was killing in the parking lot.
Do you smoke? No.
Did you ever smoke? Yes.
When did you quit? When did OJ Simpson murder his ex-wife and that waiter, hm, 1994?
All this was in the file, so I assume I was passing the test so far.
Do you have suicidal thoughts? I wanted to quote Arya Stark’s response when asked what to say to the god of death: not today. Wisely, I just said no.
Do you think a lot about death? No more than anyone else with access to WebMd.
Do you drink caffeine? Yes.
How much? Is “way too much” and “not nearly enough” an appropriate response?
Do you use recreational drugs? No, unless you consider chocolate my drug of choice.
Yes, she said, you mentioned Hostess cupcakes on your last visit.
Indeed, I confessed my near daily indulgence to the highly processed snack cakes to the couselor.
My brain then had a moment reliving the feeling of prying open the wrapper and peeling it back just far enough that I can flip over the chocolate-colored plastic container and deposit one perfectly mass produced cupcake into my hand. Then there’s the feeling of biting through the hardened icing with it’s contrasting white curls into the firm, dark cake and then into hidden deposit of glossy filling. Finally comes the feeling of relief when indulging in my guilty pleasure that always fails to provide the comfort it promises.
Hostess gives me all the feels.
I never liked the cupcakes, the nurse said, interrupting my junk food self-harm fantasy. I always like the fruit pies, she added. Not a big chocolate fan.
We could never be friends, this psych nurse and me.
It says here that you have feelings of worthlessness and failure, is that right?
Yes. Most likely, I offered, that stems from my career not being as successful as I would like, and a few other recent incidents like not being accepted to grad school; causing someone I thought was my sibling a great deal of unnecessary grief; being rejected by my birth mother.
But, I added, I am trying to give myself a little grace about the career thing.
It’s important to set reasonable goals for yourself, she advised. But still, you want to be successful. You certainly don’t want to not work hard enough and just settle.
NOT HELPING, lady, NOT HELPING.
At this point, she stepped out to get the physician’s assistant to discuss my medications. I am a big fan of pharmaceuticals. Quoting a line from one of my favorite podcasts: if your brain can’t master the recipe for happiness, store-bought is just fine.
The nurse returns with the PA so now I have two people reading everything I said last time I was there.
”You are on Cymbalta for depression and Buspar for anxiety. Which condition is more troubling?” the PA asked me.
Pondering which monster looms largest, I pushed anxiety to the front of the line. Panic attacks are pretty debilitating, and I need all my energy now so I won’t settle for career mediocrity.
Buspar has been helpful, I said, but lately my anxiety has upped its game. I feel like the Buspar is saying, hey lady, a measly 10mg can’t keep up, this shit is above our pay grade. Call for back up.
She chuckled as she looked at my chart and agreed my dose was too low. She would call in a higher dose that I would take more frequently.
Good to go, she said. We will see you back in a month.
Yes you will, and off I went to start our road trip, right after we stopped for my new prescription and a package of Hostess cupcakes.
