24
Sep
13

Diagnosis


Round four with the overwhelmingly decrepit psychiatric practice has begun.  I say decrepit because from what I can tell, no real progress has been made since the 1970s, and I think that is a shame.  I have hardly moved from one room of the house to another without my copy of The Disowned Self in tow.  While the book does nothing for my temporal anxiety, it has already done much for my internal path to self-hood.  I am increasingly hesitant to divulge much in the way of personal details, as I have resolved to document the entire 33 year affair that is my life autobiographically.  There is too much potential for others to find respite, or more, in the stories I have to tell, not because I am the only one with such stories, but because I am willing to tell them honestly, with no regard for my own pride.  After all, what is there to be proud of when you have only just met yourself?

My crisis worker is a godsend, for that I am grateful, but dealing with the following diagnosis through the modern pill-pusher hustle they call mental health care is going to be a nightmare: Bipolar I disorder, severe with psychotic features and Social Phobia.

When my eyes befell that one word, psychotic, I lurched.  They save only the worst, spirit crushing medications for such diagnoses and I am afraid that my timidity will betray me as I helplessly nod at the next psychiatrist, meekly forcing out an “ok” as they give me dosage instructions.

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