So, yeah. I go back to the doctor a week later (see Status Update).
He wants to send me for psychometric testing. Ok.
He isn’t going to put me back on any meds.
He’s not sure what’s wrong with me. I don’t fit the standard profile. He doesn’t know what to do with me, especially after we discover that my insurance won’t cover testing with the person he wants to send me to (who is apparently considered a quack by some others in the profession). I hate this. Every time I go to a new psychiatrist (in medieval Louisiana), he or she feels the need to re-diagnose me. My previous diagnosis (made in Texas) isn’t trusted because “I don’t know who that is.” What the hell? Get the records, you moron. I’m usually too messed up to realize this as it is occurring and/or do anything about it. I’m too desperate. So, I always end up with the depression with anxiety diagnosis again, and, what’s worse, a treatment plan in which the mood stabilizer is considered superfluous.
I’m freaking out. In so many ways. Not only am I facing treatment (or lack thereof) from someone who either has never heard of or doesn’t believe in bipolar disorder, type 2, but I’m completely unmedicated and panicking because the soonest I can get in to see a doctor in a trusted practice is, well, two months.
So, I do what any good psych patient would do–I go to the medicine cabinet and put myself back on meds. I decided to go with lithium and bupropion (Wellbutrin). Out of pure fear, I take what I know to be sub-therapeutic doses, just so I’m not completely insane. It calms my brain enough for me to stop feeling like I need to crawl out of it. My husband, however, is in for an unpleasant experience.
to be continued…
