The Friday Appointment

Last Friday, I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. I am able to express a lot of things here, in written form, to somebody who’s not looking on my eye (the blog readers). I don’t get to see your immediate reactions to what I’m saying, and that makes it easier. But, verbally, to a single person, I can barely articulate a few words about this, I am constantly monitoring what they’re doing, and feel rejected with anything that remotely resembles a grimace of despise, laughter, sadness, anything.

Most of the times the appointment with any doctor who deals with my depression goes like this:

Me: *Sits on the chair completely NOT relaxed*
Dr: “How have you been doing?”
Me: “Okay.”
Dr: *asks generic questions about symptoms, side effects, and awkwardly about life issues and such*
Me: “Yes” / “sure” / “no, not really” / “okay”.
Dr: “Well, take your medication and see ya next month.” Me “okay” *relieved because it’s over*

I AM aware of how little I am leaving the doctor to work with, because I AM a doctor (almost/someday), but I can’t help it. I become an irrational being who just wants to get out of there.

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