Psychiatric treatment is a peculiar thing. When you go to a physiatrist, you put a lot faith in a complete stranger, pretty much having to tell them very personal things from the very beginning of the relationship. Things you wouldn’t tell a potential mate until the twenty-third date. (Or never.) If you’re in a situation where you need medication, you have sometimes have no choice but to be much more honest then you’d like in the beginning so that they can properly medicate you. There’s no “honeymoon” period in these cases.
Several years ago, I was diagnosed with a lovely little condition called Bipolar disorder. I was actually relieved when I was diagnosed because it explained a lot of historically nutty behavior on my part, including some serious cases of depression. After an initial diagnoses by a psychiatric emergency room doctor (psych ERs, so much more interesting that regular ERs. George Clooney does not hang out in psych ERs) I went through my insurance’s website (oh insurance, how I miss you…), pulled up a list of NYC psychiatrists and started making phone calls.