Those of you who tune in regularly know that I am going through extreme dental hell. I categorize these teeth-oriented blog entries as "Me and Martin Amis," not because I'm a fabulously wealthy famous writer, but because he also had crappy teeth and went through pretty much the same thing that I'm going through. Except unlike me, Martin Amis had the means to pay for it.
As you might imagine, being stressed out 24/7 about not only my ever worsening dental problems, but also coming up with the incredible amount of money needed to pay for it, hasn't been so great for my mental state. So since I have medical insurance, I decided to bite the bullet and go see a psychiatrist. I already have an awesome therapist, but she agreed that I could probably use a little chemical helper to get me through this rather difficult period in my life.
So I went onto my insurance provider's website and got the list of approved psychiatrists. I left messages for between 10 and 15 different doctors. ONE guy bothered to return my call. Out of all those messages, only one person!!! And it's not even August!
He wasn't my first choice (I'd wanted a woman), but as nobody else could be bothered to return my call, I made an appointment. . . .
I got to his office and was immediately skeeved by how filthy it was. There was crap everywhere—you just got the feeling of chaos as soon as you walked through the door. I sat in the waiting room until his office door opened and a couple left. At least he had other clients.
He ushered me in, asked me my name, age and insurance provider. As he was doing this, he was also checking his phone, reading email and shuffling papers. He found a piece of blank sheet of paper, wrote down the pertinent information and informed me there was a $50 co-pay. I wrote him a check.
I told him what had been going on with my mouth and how it was causing me a lot of stress and depression and I thought I could use an anti-depressant. I had a couple ideas of things to try, but he quickly shot me down. Fair enough, I thought. He's the professional, after all.
He quickly diagnosed me with ADD. Um, what? I live with someone with ADD! I do not have ADD! I remember things—and if I think there's a danger I'll forget, I write it down. I have regular deadlines that I pretty much always meet. I can have a conversation without being distracted by that shiny thing in the corner. I've also been in therapy for many years (off and on) and no other licensed professional has ever suggested this might be the case. However this guy was insistent it was ADD after meeting me for five minutes.
Whatever. I figured I'd give his drugs a try. Mistake. First of all, the pills he prescribed made pooping an impossible dream. As you might imagine, being backed up all the time makes a girl more than a little cranky. So already these things were proving to be a nightmare. Then I kept getting weird patches of goosepimples on different parts of my body. I felt like my brain was disconnected from my body. I was lethargic. My work output slowed to a crawl.
After about a week of this I decided to quit taking the pills. I didn't bother to call because I'd already scheduled an appointment for the following week anyway. So I go back to his office. I'm sitting in the waiting room and I hear, "Is anybody out there?" I take that as my cue to walk in.
"What's your name?" he asks. This really disturbed me because we had an appointment, but I told him. Up on his computer screen was an email from another patient telling him she'd quit using Celexa because it was keeping her from sleeping. Her full name and email address was there, which I'm pretty sure is a violation of some sort of confidentiality code. At least I didn't have to worry about him spilling my secrets as he had no clue who I was.
"We've met before, haven't we?" he asked. What the hell!!!???? I'd been to see him two weeks before! Didn't he have a file? Or a schedule? Or anything? "I don't keep notes," he informed me. Oh. He asked me to give him a brief re-cap of what we'd talked about last time and what he'd prescribed. I got a scolding when I told him I just quit using the drugs. "You should've called me," he admonished.
Not that he would've known who the hell I was. His previous diagnosis of ADD forgotten (and I didn't remind him), he decided that I was experiencing a situation-based depression. It dawned on him that my dental and money woes were causing me to be depressed. No shit! As I was sleeping again (that had been an issue) and I was only freaking out about the dentist, he gave me some anti-anxiety meds to take on occasion. I took the prescription and fled. I'm sure the pills will come in handy at some point, but I am never going to see this guy again. OH, and before I left, he tried to talk me into quitting my dentist and going to see his instead! Apparently his guy hooks you up with nitrous so you're high the whole time he's working.
I really thought that once I quit dating I'd quit having to worry about my freak magnet. Apparently not. It's in fine working order.