yevlax

Big Brown Room


My new psychiatrists' room is an earthy brown, in contrast to the cool blue room that I went to over at the Seminary. It is also smaller, although it seems larger to my mind. After I am led to the Big Brown Room by my overly-cheerful psychiatrist, I sit down against the wall not five feet from where her desk is. Other than her desk, which is barren save for her work computer, her office is filled with artwork and books. I feel more comfortable in this room than the icy blue room at the Seminary, where my therapist sat on a couch way across the room. I am here for twenty minutes at a time, as opposed to the hour spent at the Seminary. This is my second visit, the first was two weeks ago. I had tearfully asked one of the nurses if they could refer me to someplace that would give me something for anger issues and anxiety. I came to the psychiatric center on the basis of 'not losing my shit', and was prescribed two drugs to see if they'd help. My psychiatrist asked how they were working out.

I like the welbutrin (bupropion), I tell her,It clears the 'fog' from my head and I can think a lot clearer. It also doesn't have any of the sexual side effects that the pill I took earlier this year had. I don't get any more physical energy, because of the anemia, of course, but I feel more mentally alert. I don't know how I feel about the propranolol. I don't feel like it really does anything. I tell her about the freak-out I had last week when I got manic and wrote two blog entries within 24 hours of each other, one at 5 in the morning because I couldn't go back to sleep. I took 8 of them that day, and didn't feel any calmer. That was a really low dose, she says, We'll up it to 40 mg. You can break it in two to make it 20 mg. If you think it is too much. I thank her. I like that I have more control over my treatment here.

Well, I think you're doing good. No suicidal thoughts or anything..., she says.

No. Even when I do think about suicide I don't want to die. I'd never really do it. I just get so angry and frustrated when I can't fix anything and that my life gets progressively worse with no end in sight, I reply.

So, what have you done for yourself since I saw you last? she asks. I'm caught off guard by the question, like an interviewee who answers all the normal job-related technical questions then is suddenly asked what his favorite color of penguin is. What have I...huh...for my...? I stutter.

Yes, she continues, For yourself. Then she swivels to the left to jot down some more notes.

Urm... I continue, Well I wrote two blogs. Although I was having a mild meltdown when I did. Oh! But a friend...well, internet friend, he gave me a really nice compliment on one and it made me feel good about myself all day that day. She mentioned that I was taking my medication as prescribed, which was taking care of myself. Then I mentioned how I was grumpy that there weren't a lot of support groups for anemia sufferers or Alport Syndrome (and that few of my dr.s had even heard of Alport Syndrome before I had told them what it was). I couldn't use half of the resources available at the Cancer Center because I'm not there for cancer (What kind of cancer do you have. Anemia.).

She turned to her computer and helped me look up a few things, and I need to make a profile and start posting on one specific to Alport Syndrome soon. She encouraged me to at least talk to people over the net about it, since I couldn't relate to anyone I knew here and vice-versa. Maybe you can even make a blog about your medical issues? she suggested.

Well, I sorta have one of those, I replied,...but it's mostly me crankily ranting about things. No real coherent medical information. I'm not sure I'd be good at that.

She rolled over to her bookshelf and pulled out a thin yellow book and handed it to me. It was titled, 'My Dog with Diabetes'. She said one of her patients had written that, and it was for kids mostly, but it was an example of what I could do. A diabetes foundation paid for the publishing of it. Maybe I could get an Alport Syndrome book published by one of the kidney-related groups? Maybe I could even hand it to doctors the next time I was hospitalized for something, so they'd know up front what the ywere getting to. I had the humorous image in my head of being wheeled into the ER, prolly bleeding all over the place, but wearing giant Kayne West-glasses and insisting that the transporter read 'my book on Alport Syndrome because its the greatest book on degenerative kidney disease of all time!'. I agreed to at least look into it.

I do want to eventually get to a peaceful point where I can write something besides angry rants. The bupropion seems to be clearing my head up so I can write again.