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.
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| Check out my sexy PPO, bitches. |
