I have to admit: I’m scared.
Coming up on Friday, I have that appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss getting a prescription for some sort of anti-depressant. This was my therapist’s idea and I initially was resistant to it (“I don’t need no stinkin’ help!”), but as time has passed I’ve been swayed by her arguments. Basically, I’ve gotten to a breaking point where I know that something has to change and this seems like one of the few flotation devices left in this ocean in which I’m drowning.
So, what am I scared of, exactly?
(note: if the doctor is any sort of professional, I understand that my fears are unfounded, but, frankly, logic has very little bearing on how afraid I am)
- I’m scared that I’ll go into this appointment and the doctor will think that I’m either lying or it’s all in my head. This plays on a couple of fears of mine — first, the fear of asking for help, making myself vulnerable and basically being rebuffed and laughed at for my attempt. Second, the fear that I should be able to fix this myself by “looking on the bright side” and simply “deciding to be happy” (because it’s just that easy, didn’t you know?)
- I’m scared of being utterly intimidated and overwhelmed at the appointment. Let’s face it: this whole situation makes me want to curl up into a ball and pretend like it doesn’t exist (see how well that’s worked so far?). In the face of a doctor that might not have the best bedside manner, I worry that I’ll clam up and not ask the questions I need to ask for fear of sounding dumb or weak or unintelligent.
- I’m scared about all the potential side effects — everything from dizziness to weight gain to decreased sexual desire (though, with the current state of my dating affairs, this might be a bonus) to tiredness to hair loss to extra limbs growing out of my chest (who really reads all the fine print?). What if all I’m doing is trading in one problem for another?
- But probably the thing that I’m scared most about is this: the appointment will go fine, the doctor will listen and sympathize, tell me that things will get better…and then I’ll be prescribed medication and it won’t work. That I’ll still feel sad. And like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. No way out. That this pervading loneliness is my destiny. That I’m too broken to fix.
Yea, that last one, that’s the one that keeps me up at night. Classic fear of failure, but with stakes that take my breath away. What if I’m just too broken.
But having run out of ways to make this better on my own, I know I need to make this leap to try and save myself. So, I will go to the doctor’s office on Friday (after having shrugged on my bravery coat of armor) and hope for the best. Hope that my random choice of doctor from my insurance list is someone who will listen and understand and be kind. Hope that there’s…. hope, I suppose.
That’s all I really want.