Therapy, Day 2

Writhing in the pit up my stomach, like there is a demon inside trying to escape by clawing and scraping from the inside out, I walk out to the van at the last possible minute to be able to arrive on time for day 2 of therapy. I don't want to go. I really don't want to go. I blow past the war in my stomach like some pregnant woman about to heave forth her bundle into the universe. I think of every reason I can not to get in the van. My mind is set on heavy duty spin as I pull open the door -- I am sure someone put weights in the door, as it feels 500 pounds heavy. I clamber into the seat, and rest my hands on the wheel thinking, "Maybe if I just skip today." Somehow, as if having a will of their own, my keys find the ignition and light up the engine. My hands are glued to the steering wheel as I maneuver out of the driveway, easing the van into the street.

"Maybe I will get smashed into by some hapless driver. Then I will have a reason for missing therapy," I think to myself. No such luck. I arrive a few minutes later to the parking lot of Anthony House, safe and sound. Rats. Plenty of traffic today, but no one plowed into me. I steel myself, and walk into the building. My heart pounding, my stomach churning, and my head feeling as though it is going to explode, I try to look confident as I walk up to the counter, keys in hand ready to trade for a buzzer, I am greeted by the ever cheerful Tammy with a "You made it back today!"

"Yes, I did." I hand over the keys and receive my buzzer. It is the great summoner to the desk. One might have to see a nurse, a psychiatrist, a counselor, have a phone call, or do paperwork. When mine goes off, my heart beats with a thud, thud against my chest until I find out why I have been summoned. Today, it goes off early. I am still in a morning group. I scoop up my folder and bag, and trot off the desk like the perfect patient. My counselor is waiting for me. We talk about why I am there, my history, and a ton of personal things that may or may not have anything to do with my mental status. I try not to burst into tears, but don't even know why I feel that way. She is, after all, scribbling furiously on the page, clinging to every word like some mooney-eyed high school girl with their first crush. I get gently scolded for not being able to come up with a goal for therapy. Not feeling like shit is not a goal. I promise I will contemplate my lack of goalage as I leave the room.

I also get buzzed out for paperwork, to see the nurse, and to see the psychiatrist. The psych reminds me of Doogie Howser, because he looks way too young to be in his position. He refers to his wall of degrees and certifications as proof of his abilities. I like him. I like his honesty and his forthright manner. He doesn't talk down to me, and I appreciate that. I find him witty and really on top of things. Not once does he make me feel inferior or worthless -- both things that I have felt with mental health professionals before. He allows me to be present for his dictation of the chart of the visit -- somehow, in my mixed-up mind, validating that he sees me as a person, and not just some thing to be medicated and swept out the door. He talks 90 miles a minute, and apologizes for the fact that he is speeding things along. He is running behind on this day. (Imagine that.) He suggests a medication addition and a dose change. I agree with him. I will try almost anything to free myself from this darkness that engulfs me, and threatens to drain my very life force.

My day passes in a blur of faces and stories. It is time to leave before I know it. I am glad. The big point for me to ponder today: one of the other patients said that if we (mental illness patients) had been diagnosed with bone cancer instead of mental illness, that we wouldn't hesitate to inquire about the best treatments, look for the best doctors, and try to locate the specific hospital that specializes in the type of care required, but most people try to deal with depression and other mental illness on their own, they are afraid and embarrassed to tell other people what they are going through, and generally feel put down by society. Why is that?