I went to my first psychiatrist appointment on Wednesday. For something that I dreaded and feared and stayed up most of the night worrying about, I showed up remarkably unprepared. Thanks, anxiety, for reminding me of the numerous ways I’ve made horrible first impressions over the years, but failing to remind me to do anything practical – like charge my phone or get gas before I hit the road.
My appointment was at 1:45. I waited until 1:15 to look up where the office was. According to Google, I should have left five minutes ago if I wanted to make it on time. So, I was off to a good start.
I raced out of the door and loaded up directions on my phone while the car beeped to let me know it needed gas soon. It would have to wait. Halfway there, my phone informed me it was on 10% battery life. And I was still 20 minutes away. And then another beep from the car to remind me of the low-fuel situation.
“Yeah, well you’re just going to have to wait. We all need to make sacrifices sometimes and right now I’m doing the best I can, so you need to step it up, buddy.” My therapist and I have been discussing boundaries and I figured now was a good time to start setting some.
I made it to the generic office park and started searching buildings for the right office. I must have thought it would be more obvious, like a special arrow only chemically imbalanced people can see that would lead the way. I am sad to report that no such arrow exists. Instead, I found that all the offices looked the same, and I didn’t know what practice my psychiatrist was with because instead of using my pre-doctor-visit-late-night-nervous-energy to look up that bit of useful information, I was on page 7 of an article titled, “Weird Signs That You’re Unhealthy.” (Spoiler Alert: reading 7 pages of a “health” article from Cosmo Girl at 3 am is a sure sign that you’re an insomniac.)
After walking up and down the hallways of the two-story building for ten minutes, I decided to use the remaining 3% of my phone’s battery life to call the office and admit defeat. It rang 7 times then went to voicemail.
“Hi, my name is Jess Griggs, I have an appointment at 1:45, I know I’m late but I’m still coming, I just can’t find you and so I’m here, but not there, so if you can call me back I’d appreciate it but try to call soon cuz my phone is about to die and so I’m kind of a mess, which I guess is why I have an appointment today. Because of the mess, not because of my phone. Which I’m sure you understood without me having to explain. Ok. Right. I’m hanging up now. Bye.”
So now they have that little gem saved on a machine somewhere and I’m sure a copy of that transcript is being placed in my file as I type this.
I walked by suite 112 for the 5th time. It said, “Psych Associates” in big letters, and then listed a bunch of doctors, none of whom matched the name on my referral. I looked at the 1% battery on my phone and decided no one was going to call and save me. I checked one more time for a magical flashing arrow and then opened the door. I figured if the doctor I was referred to wasn’t there, at least these people would be familiar with a nervous breakdown and could offer me tissues and maybe some free samples of Prozac.
I was in the right place. And my psychiatrist was running late too. No harm, no foul. Now if only I could find that dang answering machine and set it on fire…
“Jessica Griggs?”
I jumped out of my seat, half startled, half nauseated.
“Sorry to scare you. I’m Dr. Agnani. Please follow me to my office.”
Sitting in Dr. Agnani’s office wasn’t as painful as I thought it was going to be. I remember seeing psychiatrists in when I was in middle school and they didn’t really talk to me, so much as they talked at me. This time was different. He asked me about family history, symptoms, traumas, etc. Then opened up the floor to discuss anything else I wanted him to know about me. After looking over his notes, he gave me the official diagnosis: depression, anxiety, PTSD, and borderline personality disorder. He asked if I was currently on any medication for those conditions, and I said no. He then gave me what I assume was a compliment, one that I’ve heard a few times over the last few months from various medical professionals, “You’ve kept it together surprisingly well, considering everything.”
But he went on to say, “Life really doesn’t have to be this hard. You don’t have to live your life feeling like you’re on the edge of a cliff. You’ll need to work with your therapist and do the heavy lifting of wading through the past, but I also highly recommend a sleep aid and antidepressant. Even if just for now. Just to help keep your head above water.”
And that’s where we ended things. He gave me prescriptions and I have another appointment in 4 weeks.
I then went to my car and cried for a respectable 10 minutes, got it together, turned on the car, and remembered I had no gas. And my phone was dead. And I was 40 minutes away from home. It all felt very symbolic, so I allowed myself 5 more minutes of self-pity crying before remembering I passed a gas station two blocks away that would have gas, chocolate, coffee, and a portable phone charger. All the essentials to make it just a little longer.
