"You--take him to a headshrinker!"
So I saw my pal Pedro, also known as Doc Pedro, PCP, today.
Doc Pedro wasn't having the best of days. Somebody's grandchild was trying to systematically dismantle his waiting room as somebody's grandchild's grandmother made a big stink about nothing, and in walks his primo, pure-dee, brass-plated Headcase Du Jour.
Poor Doc Pedro. He's sending me to a headshrinker. On accounta, she says, channelling Action and Riff, I'm depraved. And on account of the "cyclical nature of my depression." Yes, he really talks like that.
Never mind that four years of good control on Effexor is the longest damn cycle I've ever seen, Jack, and maybe he got me mixed up with somebody else; I'm headed off to find a psychiatrist.
All joking aside, there's a definite period of adjustment when you come to terms with the fact that you need medication to function like a normal person. Then your medication gets doubled on the same day that your PCP tells you he can't really manage your care any more, and you're forced to look at yourself in the sunshade mirror of your car and say,
I am mentally ill.
I have a chronic condition that is not curable, but is manageable with lifestyle changes and medication.
I will be doing this the rest of my life.
Whereupon, driving up the street, it suddenly made sense to me why some people actually kill themselves.
I, of course, not wanting to deprive the Reading Public of my thoughts, did not drive my car under a bus. Instead, I went out and got an order of nachos with extra guacamole and drank a beer. Then I considered my plight.
I am mentally ill. I will be doing this the rest of my life. I will be managing, with any luck, my illness with lifestyle changes and medication. Forever.
Then I swallowed another Effexor. Doc Pedro doubled my dosage today, given that all my symptoms are those of somebody whose body has grown accustomed to Effexor. He wasn't willing to change my meds, fearing that that would merely confuse any other practitioner I consulted.
So, here I am. I'm depraved, not on account of I'm deprived (unless it's some intrinsic genetic failing), but I'm depraved. Just knowing that I have some problem that he can't help me fix makes me feel better. You know those questionnaires that you take, where the max score is 21? I got 18. I think anything over 15, for him, merits a referral.
I swear to Frog I'll find the silver lining in this. (See? My mood's improving already.) It might take a while, but I'll find it.
Meanwhile, I have to find a shrink I can handle. Good thing I work on the Brain Unit, eh?