I started off the day with a three hour psychiatrist appointment. To say the least, it wasn’t particularly pleasant. The goal of the meeting was primarily to re-prescribe me medication, and to go over my diagnosis. I’ve gone through such arduous meetings a myriad of times, all without much ardency on my part, but I do my best with answering all the repetitive questioning, and elaborate all I must and can in order to give my psychiatrist a firm idea about me. After all, I want so badly to get better, and I don’t have much of a choice but to put my trust in these authorities.
The meeting, in brief, went like this:
My mother and I sat down with the psychiatrist, my psychologist, and a psychiatrist trainee in the beginning for around ten minutes to start off with introductions. After this, my mother was asked to leave the room, and we spent the next hour or so talking. I won’t go into much detail as to the content and more into how I felt in the duration of the time.
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t experienced before. I wasn’t nervous the whole time, only for some parts where I was asked to confess certain things on the topic of suicide. I would just like to point out blatantly that I hate these meetings. I hate counselling and I loathe anything that requires me to talk about my disorders in a confined, and superficial environment. I don’t mind speaking about my emotions, my experiences when interest arises in a conversation, but being filed into a room where the intent is to analyse my cognitive behaviour and question my intents and surround me in constant reminder that I am ill makes me incredibly uncomfortable and, quite frankly, very sad. The atmosphere intensifies my emotions, amplifying my constant sadness. The plain questioning and answering forces me to visit the dark corners of my mind where I shove most of my shitty thoughts to rot in a disarrayed heap– and I hate that feeling. When I am stressed to re-visit these dark corners I am only reminded of the past which I try so hard to blur, and any feelings and unhealthy habits and guilty confessions that I hate. I become triggered and especially somber in such scenarios, and this causes me to repress more often and more easily. This is not good; I know it is good to confront feelings and deal with them first hand, but if the feelings that follow are only prolonged bleakness and intensified hopelessness, is it worth the hassle? I feel like I’m tossed like a lab rat by the people who care about me, which is contradictory and confusing and…
I just want to breathe in the shambles of my life. I don’t mean to sound like a bad drama with no happy ending, there is so much to it than that, but I can’t put it all into a single blog post.
In the end, my psychiatrist said a lot of stuff and my mind has already defaulted itself into blurring what he verbally provided. However, what I did get out of the three hour session is that I am on another medication in addition to the one I have now, and I have been re-diagnosed and categorized into something that I won’t mention here.
I don’t know what will happen, but I wonder: is it possible to keep persevering when there isn’t a feeling of hope?