“Teenage hormones”
“Chemical imbalance”
“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”
“Postpartum Depression”
“Seasonal Affective Disorder”
“Bipolar”
“Generalized Anxiety Disorder”
Since I was 15 years old, I’ve been diagnosed with one thing after another.
It’s like a revolving door. Or a carousel of diagnoses. Like a really bad carnival ride, where you just want off, but it seems like it won’t end. Ever.
Usually I get a new label because we’ve run through the gamut of medication that is supposed to “solve” one problem, only to find that none of them work.
Or I have changed providers.
So I fill out another 500 question sheet of paper, which of course has answers that are completely dependent on what day of the week it is, what time of the day it is and whether or not I got any sleep the night before.
Then after this highly scientific deduction process, I’m given a new prescription to go with my new label and sent on my merry way.
Only to fall flat on my ass at some point (and I do mean fall, like rock-bottom), and have to start all over again.
This is why I’m a big fan of saying that medicine alone is not enough. I fully believe medicine is a hugely helpful tool. But I also think that it needs to be in conjunction with some form of therapy.
Of course, that doesn’t explain why I haven’t managed to make it to my appointments with my therapist in the last couple months…
Ahhh, the Medical Mystery Tour. It’s awful.
You should totally go to your therapist, if, for no other reason than to talk about your frustrations.
Wow. I get this. A lot. I broke my leg a couple of times and it took them until time #3 to diagnose me with my actual problem. It was sooo frustrating.
Just sending you hugs.