Depressed and Diabetic: The Winning Combination!

Remember back when I was talking about diapression?  I still think the word is utterly ludicrous; however, I never did doubt that it was a real thing.

A few weeks ago, I went to a psychiatrist for the first time in my life.  I was nervous.  I had thoughts in my head of men with cigars who pay you no mind as you talk about your dreams.  I pictured Betty Draper, from Mad Men, lying on that black leather couch in season 1, talking to a man who never seems to really be listening.

When I got to the psychiatrist's office, I found it rather...doctor-ish.  The ceiling of the waiting room was your standard white-panel ceiling with florescent lighting.  There was a lamp, for ambiance, I suppose.  Next to me was a small end table with one of those table-top fountains on it, the tiniest trickle of water running through it...for ambience, I suppose.  There was a coffee table with various magazines on it, and a magazine rack on the wall with your typical trashy doctor's office fare.  I wondered if it was healthy to be looking at doctored-up photos in Glamour magazine when you're supposed to be receiving mental health care.  Don't women with serious body issues come into this office?

I filled out some paperwork and took some deep breaths.  Eventually I was called back to see the doctor.  He had a relatively nice office despite the conventional doctor's office location.  I sat in a moderately comfortable chair by his desk.  We talked a bit.  I was a wee bit surprised that he was not trying to plumb my subconscious for information.  He wasn't asking me a lot of questions, and if he was, it felt more like a conversation than an interrogation on my mental state.  He diagnosed me as depressed and put me on Wellbutrin, which was kind of what I requested, as I've been on it before and it didn't cause me any irritating side effects.

So here I am once again, "blessed" with these two D's in my life...diabetes and depression.  I go in for my first follow-up visit tomorrow.  I guess I've noticed some small changes in these three weeks, but I don't know yet.  I do feel a little less hopeless.  I'm definitely crying less, trying to talk through things more.

Just don't make me call it diapression.  If I do have to call it diapression*, please make sure I do this while sporting some jeggings* and talking to an audience of tweens*.


*Now you know 3 of my least favorite words.  My number one least favorite word?  Eyesore. Ick, I don't even like looking at it.