Damn, J Was Right
So I went to the doctor. And even though I SWORE to him that I was not pregnant we did a test. I am not pregnant. For a reason that I don't believe he mentioned (and I am not entirely sure he had one) we did a chest x-ray. Normal.
This is one thing I love about my doctor. He is my mom with an MD. He thinks, "well it doesn't hurt to check" about every single symptom. He kept reassuring me that he believed me when I said I was exhausted. He told me that I looked tired and that I was right to think that there is no reason for some one of my age and health to feel that way.
I love this about him because I have health insurance though. Its like he wants me to feel like he is worth my $20 co-pay.
But he finally said that he thinks I have depression. He gave me a little test to fill out. I have to admit that it was hard for me to be honest on that test. Because my little competitive soul could barely resist treating this test like a Big Girl SAT and trying to get a good score.
My husband has been trying to tell me I am depressed. I didn't believe him. I have been depressed before. I was never treated but I knew I was depressed. This didn't feel like that.
My father was depressed for years. And my grandmother. Neither have ever been treated. Neither would agree that they needed treatment.
Its not that I thought depression was something to be ashamed of. Its that I didn't want to go for counseling. Because I honestly don't understand why I would be depressed. And I cannot imagine going to a counselor and telling them my problems. I would be afraid to go. That they would just stare and me like "and?" Because what I write here are my problems. My job is boring. I am a bit bitchy. I cannot stand scented lotions. Seriously ya'll that is it.
I have a great life. I don't have any real problems. This is not denial it is the actual truth.
He asked me if still enjoyed my hobbies. That was a tougher question than it should be. My hobbies are not really hobbies. I like watching baseball. And making fun of people's clothes on the bus. And reading. And playing online poker. But when your doctor asks you if you enjoy your hobbies he wants you to say "yes Sir, I go to my quilting bee on Monday and line dancing on Fridays." You can't tell your doctor, "yes I do, I especially enjoy throwing tennis balls at the TV during Survivor, I can't wait for the new season."
But my doctor and I were sitting there talking about depression all the same. I took the test. He said you are scoring with mild depression. He asked me if I was sad. I said no. Because I am not sad. Frustrated. Angry. Even lonely sometimes. But not really sad. But then he said are you wheepy.
Well damn. Yes. I have always been wheepy. I thought I was just a crier. I have always been a crier. That is my biggest weakness. I crier in anger, frustration, ANYTHING. I hate that about myself but it is true. And when he said it I started to cry. And I was like, "yes, I am wheepy." Because DAMN.
And he wanted me to try anti-depressants.
Which on one hand THRILLED me. Because I wouldn't have to go to a counselor. But on the other, pissed me off. Because aren't we such a goddamn medicated society.
He did tell me that he wasn't suggesting therapy because I didn't seem to have anything going on that was making me depressed. And it was likely chemical or temporary.
He also assured me that the anti-depressant he was prescribing was one without sexual side effects. Because, "Your husband is my patient and I don't need to be treating him for depression too."
Hee. Love him.
So I am going to give it a shot. If my damn insurance company ever approves the damn pills. Its not like I have been writing anything clever or interesting so we could all worry about how this will affect my writing. I can still writed about poop and the fucking cat if I am happy.
