What is your diagnosis? Should I see my psychiatrist again?
I’d like to try and keep this as brief and blunt as possible, so to cut a long story short:
Around a year ago, I was referred to a professional psychiatrist by my GP, on behalf of the fact that I was severely suffering from anorexia due to feelings of intense ‘diagnosed’ depression and suicidal tendencies.
Reluctantly, I obliged; but in retrospect, I realize that I was not conforming to my Doctor’s instructions to gain professional mental help in order to gain some level of emotional stability and sanity – in fact, I complied merely as I was feeling arrogant of my daily routine, and quite fancied the idea of having an excuse to disrupt previous engagements at the call of an ‘anonymous’ appointment. Basically, I wasn’t obliging due to some mechanical, cognitive drive to relieve my illnesses – it was apathy.
Well, I attended my first appointment: I found no personal errs between me and my psychiatrist, instead, I found her to be ‘unfitting’ for my situation, and so became distinctly aloof, diverting the conversation drastically at any given opportunity in order to throw her as far off the scent as possible.
I feel so puerile to remember it now, but I spent the best part of six months performing this act, every Thursday at four o’ clock – and all the while, I was still wallowing in my frustration with an empty stomach. After all, she was only trying to help.
Fatigued with the effort of apathy one evening, I decided to quit my counseling appointments. My psychiatrist was discontented by this, and decided – after much convincing! – that she would keep my case open for future opportunity.
Fast forward two months later, and my situation seems to have worsened impeccably. I won’t go into the grotesque details, but let’s just say that I was definitely a mess. Due to a particularly stressful period that I foreshadowed in the coming months, I made the brash decision to inquire to my Doctor about the anti-depressants that I had been offered twice before.
Fidgeting anxiously in the Doctor’s chair, I imagined that it would all be so quick, succinct – that he would just simply sign a slip and whisk me off to the chemist to retrieve my medication like the faithful and needy canine that I felt. But no; he began to quiz me, and before I realized, he astounded me with the knowledge that he would be referring me back to my old clinic, only this time, I was to be in the hands of a more qualified, higher-level psychiatrist.
I knew that the prospect of medication would never have washed my problems away, but I just wanted nullification. I didn’t want to begin to discuss my truest, most intense and vulnerable feelings – I wanted to pretend that I was an asexual alien, and isolate myself from any physical manifestation that should stumble across my path and attempt to extract me from my self-imposed gloom, like some nocturnal specimen.
However, I did attend the first appointment with my new psychiatrist.
Upon arrival, I was particularly irritated at the garish presence of my old psychiatrist, whom upon seeing me, allowed her untrained features to unfold a look of inquisitive discomfort at my state. Three whole hours I spent droning. I could barely answer a meager question without my rash abashment flaring up malignantly in my voice.
When I was finally allowed the luxury of leaving that humid room, the only calculated thoughts that I could bear to muster were, “I’m done.” And I was. The next day, I rang my psychiatrist and quit for the second time. At this time, I was foolishly convinced that I was going to be alright – that I had cracked some kind of code to self-enlightenment or something.
And everything was alright for a while. I pushed all negative and self-depreciating thoughts to the darkest orifice of my cerebral cavity, I abstained from direct self-harm (asides from starvation) and I ignored my own intuition, numbing myself with simplicities.
At one point, I even began to watch the programs that I had enjoyed as a small child again, because I felt that that was the closest that I could get to freedom within myself.
It didn’t last for long – you know what they say: after a period of still, there always must commence an explosion; and that’s exactly what has happened to me.
At the moment, I am just trying to muster the strength to cope with each day as it comes to me in the first breaths of morning light. I have been depleted to the state where I almost never leave the paranoia of my own home, I find it difficult to maintain personal hygiene, I never eat asides from wild moments of bulimic frenzy, and I have managed to isolate myself from everyone whom I know.
This is no way to live – and I don’t want this. It isn’t good enough for me to just ignore these intense feelings that I have, because that way, I will never allow myself to move ahead.
P.S. Apologies; this was supposed to be short, direct and to-the-point – but I am forever being carried off by my atrocious stream of thought.