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In the past, I might well have been one of those people who joked inappropriately about mental issues, with the thought that they were somehow less real than physical afflictions because of being invisible to the outside world, and that a lot of the treatment for them might be better replaced with telling those affected to get over it and cheer up a bit. But finding myself starting treatment for anxiety issues, I will now do my utmost to handle these things with the greatest of tact and sensitivity.
My first trip to the nutbag department, then, was something that I had been ironically anxious about in the days leading up to it. Most of it was that I honestly felt a bit short of material - that I was going there for lesser problems than other people, because it was so easy to forget the severity of the event that made me seek help. This was especially true because with the holidays over, repeating a journey like that is not something that's likely to come up again in the near future - indeed, though, I'm basing my calmness of thinking about it on the theory that I will never have to do it again, and I believe the point of all this is to allow me to do so.
After I sat down in one of the two identical chairs in the office, suddenly wondering if which one I chose was a subtle psychological test in itself, most of the appointment was a sort of This Is Your Life interview, where the doctor asked me about what I did at home, at work, if I had had issues growing up, how I felt about my day to day life and if I had noticed any differences when I moved to America (which I summarized quickly to prevent the appointment going on for more than eight hours). Then there was suddenly a part where she asked me various mental problems like subtracting 7 from 100 and keeping going, or going through the calendar in reverse from a certain month. I was sort of hoping to be asked to recite the alphabet backwards because I learned how to do it rapidly by heart when I was in school, but if that had come up I may now as a result be under treatment for autism.
The other part was what I had been sort of fearing throughout my presence in the euphemistically-named Behavioural Health department, related to the thought that people around you are continually watching to make sure you don't suddenly whip out a chainsaw. She asked me if I had ever considered suicide, if I had access to firearms or if I had ever had any homicidal thoughts - all of which I calmly denied, because I felt that "Apart from for Piers Morgan" would not have been an acceptable answer.
In the end, she concluded that my anxiety is situational and not constant, so recommended that I keep the lorazepam on hand for a crutch if I ever find myself going into something that I find stressful, and I've been given the name of a book to read through and an appointment for cognitive behavioural therapy in a couple of months. So we'll see where it goes from there.
It's worth mentioning that yesterday morning I lost my iPhone by putting it down on the coffee table on top of the development book with a picture of an iPhone on the front and then being unable to see it while looking around the living room. I wonder if they have anything to cure silliness.
My first trip to the nutbag department, then, was something that I had been ironically anxious about in the days leading up to it. Most of it was that I honestly felt a bit short of material - that I was going there for lesser problems than other people, because it was so easy to forget the severity of the event that made me seek help. This was especially true because with the holidays over, repeating a journey like that is not something that's likely to come up again in the near future - indeed, though, I'm basing my calmness of thinking about it on the theory that I will never have to do it again, and I believe the point of all this is to allow me to do so.
After I sat down in one of the two identical chairs in the office, suddenly wondering if which one I chose was a subtle psychological test in itself, most of the appointment was a sort of This Is Your Life interview, where the doctor asked me about what I did at home, at work, if I had had issues growing up, how I felt about my day to day life and if I had noticed any differences when I moved to America (which I summarized quickly to prevent the appointment going on for more than eight hours). Then there was suddenly a part where she asked me various mental problems like subtracting 7 from 100 and keeping going, or going through the calendar in reverse from a certain month. I was sort of hoping to be asked to recite the alphabet backwards because I learned how to do it rapidly by heart when I was in school, but if that had come up I may now as a result be under treatment for autism.
The other part was what I had been sort of fearing throughout my presence in the euphemistically-named Behavioural Health department, related to the thought that people around you are continually watching to make sure you don't suddenly whip out a chainsaw. She asked me if I had ever considered suicide, if I had access to firearms or if I had ever had any homicidal thoughts - all of which I calmly denied, because I felt that "Apart from for Piers Morgan" would not have been an acceptable answer.
In the end, she concluded that my anxiety is situational and not constant, so recommended that I keep the lorazepam on hand for a crutch if I ever find myself going into something that I find stressful, and I've been given the name of a book to read through and an appointment for cognitive behavioural therapy in a couple of months. So we'll see where it goes from there.
It's worth mentioning that yesterday morning I lost my iPhone by putting it down on the coffee table on top of the development book with a picture of an iPhone on the front and then being unable to see it while looking around the living room. I wonder if they have anything to cure silliness.
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In my world, it's the only acceptable answer.
Good luck with the CBT. An acronym I always find amusing, as a side note.
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