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.