Today I met the psychiatrist I had given the title, Nigerian Prince. A Nigerian psychiatrist that was going to be my savior. He was going to ride in on his white horse and help this damsel in distress.
It all went down a little differently to this though. I spent the night before tossing and turning and unable to sleep. I was nervous about meeting my new psychiatrist.
The whole consult was spent with him on one side of the table and me on the other – very principal-office-like. He never smiled. We went through the complicated history of my medicine. He didn’t seem to have read the referral notes.
He then starts digging into the past. The broad strokes of it all weren’t good enough though, he wanted details. Details that I’m not even okay thinking about. Thinking this man was going to help me I spewed out the ugly words.
After that he sees marks on my arms and suggests that maybe I’ve done this for attention.
I then got to spend the next 15 minutes crying while he typed his notes without saying anything to me or even looking at me.
At this point I still had faith that he would help me but this idea shattered violently when he told me his plan moving forward.
The plan involved taking me down to the minimum dose of everything I was taking. He could then see what – if anything – the lamotrigine was doing. He seemed convinced it wasn’t doing anything and he had ideas of getting rid of this drug completely.
We would go down in Prozac only because one of the rare symptoms of Prozac is seizures. Didn’t matter I just been striped of 225mg of Venlafaxine which has a higher risk for seizures.
These changes would come with withdrawals. Withdrawals I would just need to suck it buttercup. I’d already tried the reduction in Prozac and it didn’t go well. I was suicidal and I’m not sure how I have kept my job.
I spent $600 to bring up things I didn’t want to talk about, be treated like I was an attention-seeker and freeze in fear at the thought of the experiment he wanted to undertake.
Nobody is listening to me …