Well, today I had another telephone call with my physician.
I’ve been seeing him for a while. About a year I think.
I’ll call him Dr. T.M.. I’ve kinda mentioned these blogs to him. I don’t know if he’s checked them out. If I’m not mistaken he is younger than I am.
To be honest, I’ve never had a good relationship with physicians in the past but Dr. T.M. seems quite on the ball and is actually quite involved with my care.
I’ve had massive battles with depression for all of my life. One of the unhelpful doctors I went to a while ago wanted to know what was troubling me. When I started explaining to him what I had been through he told me to stop. He said he didn’t want to hear about problems from my past. He wanted to know what was currently bothering me.
Other doctors weren’t trustworthy or honestly just didn’t seem to care, period.
When I had my heart issue back around 2012 a family doctor that I started seeing at the time was far more interested in my piercings and if they hurt, or got infected, or if I was wearing them to scare people. I didn’t see him for too long.
As far as getting psychiatric help, I’ve taken advantage of some programs at work through my employer. But not to toot my own horn, but I’m a fucking basket case.
- growing up in an alcoholic household with intergenerational psychiatric issues.
- growing up in a household with anger control issues.
- 1-1/2 years of sexual abuse at the hands of a very confused teenager who was being groomed and controlled by a Captain of the regular force of the Canadian Forces
- 2-1/2 years of psychological abuse at the hands of a military social worker who was determined to cure me of my apparent homosexuality that I had exhibited when I was sexually abused for 1-1/2 years.
- Blamed by my father for matters that were far beyond my control or responsibility.
- failure to receive proper psychiatric care when it was indicated that I had major depression and severe anxiety.
- As of this date the depression and anxiety have been allowed to fester like a cancer in my brain.
One of my issues with seeking psychiatric help earlier in life is the way my father and Captain Totzke pitted me against my civilian social workers. After that, I had very little trust or faith in “professionals”.
Also, there was my father’s reactions to my mental health back then. I was an embarrassment to him. If any of my illness started to show it would be a back hand or a spanking. He drilled into my head that I was just a crybaby having breakdowns as a means to gain attention. So it should come as very little surprise that I’ve had great difficulty obtaining help.
As I said before, I don’t cry any longer not because I have nothing to cry about. I don’t cry any longer because I’ve long since run out of tears to cry.
I am so fucking numb to just about everything.
Dr. T.M. hasn’t been judgemental once. He hasn’t fussed over my piercings nor my tattoos. When I told him about my literal breakdown earlier this year he had absolutely no hesitation in putting me on sick leave, and when the rest didn’t work on its own, he put my on escitalopram right away.
He has been quite open to my request to look into M.A.i.D.. If that’s what I want, then he’s willing to work with me starting next year when the the committee currently reviewing M.A.i.D. for psychiatric issues makes their recommendations to Parliament. Whether or not Parliament accepts all of the recommendations or just cherry picks the recommendations is yet to be seen. We won’t know until March 2023 what the requirements and rules will be.
Who knows, by then maybe by the time M.A.i.D. had been approved I’ll have changed my mind. I haven’t given up on alternatives. It’s just that I’m very pragmatic and realistic. Maybe the drugs will make significant changes, maybe they won’t. The baggage and the unwanted visitors are still residing in my skull.
But it is nice having someone listen to my desires and the rational for my desires and not laugh me off as being melodramatic silly.