I was already talking myself out of going when I got in the car, but off I went to the doctor’s office. I had opted to go for a female GP, as it felt like it may be easier to open up to a woman about my depression. Not sure why, but it is what it is.
After I had paid for my consultation upfront, I sat down in a crowded waiting room and thought I would only need to wait for a few minutes. The doctor was running very late, though nobody was keeping me updated, and I hesitated to get up, because I worried that if I got up, I would walk out and not come back. Here I had decided to be brave, to be vulnerable, and to share what I was going through with a complete stranger with the hopes that I would be able to get some help, and I had to sit for an hour, questioning the decision, looking for ways to get out of there, even considering making a scene and telling the receptionist to go fuck herself.
At long last, I was moved to another waiting area, and a short while and a few forced smiles to people walking past later, I was sitting in front of a young doctor who had trustworthy eyes. “I’m so so so so sorry to have kept you waiting” she started, after which she rambled something about old people taking forever during consultations. I was too anxious to care or even listen, I just wanted to get talking. I had made it this far, and I just wanted to hear some sort of feedback for how I had been feeling. I had practiced over and over how I would start the conversation. How do you start the conversation? This is a great source of anxiety in itself. “Hi doctor, I’m depressed.” – too forward. “Hi doctor, my mental health is low” – low? What does that mean? I didn’t know how to do it.
I can’t recall what I said or what she asked, but a minute later I was rambling off about the last six months of my life, talking about how I had started to isolate myself from everyone for the past few years, mentioning the breakdown of my engagement last year, discussing how it had affected my work performance, how I had always been able to “put on a show” at work, and how I had somehow managed to make it here. “Suicidal thoughts?” she asked. I paused. I mentioned that I was unable to see past June. As in, unable to see past 13 days from now, when it would be July 1st. “So no plan of action yet then?” she continued, adding what I interpreted as humour. Time and place, lady.
Now this is where I need to give her some serious props. Following this and acknowledging my depression diagnosis, she started talking to me about mental health, the stigma around it and how by 2030 it will be the leading cause of death in the world.
She called it a disease, which automatically made me feel more scared, yet more validated. I had expected to be told that it was something “you just get over” but she really stressed the severity of the situation. I am thankful to her for doing so, because had she not, I may have walked out of there feeling worse about this illness, perhaps also thinking that it wasn’t serious and that my suicidal thoughts would go away. She told me that she was going to try me on an antidepressant called Nuzak for 1 month, but that I would need to commit to 6 months as a minimum if I wanted to see any long term changes. She told me it wasn’t a magic pill, and that I would need to make some serious lifestyle changes. We talked about marijuana, which I don’t use anyway, but funny enough she didn’t mention alcohol at all – something I do consume, pretty regularly. I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t mentioned as a go-to.
Regardless, and still feeling more assured and like a weight had been lifted off my chest, I left her consulting room and went to the dispensary in the same building, handing my prescription (which also contained some anti-anxiety medication – apparently anxiety is a side effect once you start taking anti-depressants for the first time) to a nice old lady who I felt was probably going to judge me for needing to get these medications, but I couldn’t dwell. All part of the stigma, all part of the fear that you’re somehow “broken” by suffering from a physical imbalance over which you have absolutely no say or control. She came back a little while later, I paid for both medications, happy that they were more affordable than I thought they would be (in your mind you also tell yourself that they will be ridiculously expensive to deter you from going), and I was on my way.
As I got into the car, it started raining and I sat for a minute staring at the boxes. I opened them frantically and started reading through the leaflets for information on anything I could expect to feel over the next few days. The doctor has simply mentioned headaches, but had not given me an indication as to what to expect. She didn’t give me an indication as to whether the dose would be low, or if it was high. I really was going in blind, which is something that is definitely also a part of the hurdle of getting treatment. I wish there was a simple way – a checklist of sorts – to help people get the information they want. If people had more of an idea of what they were in for – regardless of the fact that I know everyone responds differently and there is no ‘one size fits all solution’ – perhaps more people would reach out and seek treatment for depression.
After digging through the leaflets, still not satisfied but keen to get going with my treatment, I decided to head home, but not before calling my mom from the driveway, sobbing, and finally acknowledging that I had been diagnosed with that dreaded, never-to-be-spoken of disease called depression.
Conrad was here.