Waiting Room Thoughts

In three hours I'll be sat with a psychiatrist for the first time. I'm filled with anxiety. I will have one hour. Perhaps in that one hour I'll be asked the right questions. Perhaps I'll be fit enough to respond meaningfully. Perhaps he will have the expertise and experience to fill in the gaps that one can't cover in an hour. Perhaps he will understand how important that one hour will be to me. Perhaps.

Depression takes several forms and correct diagnosis is key to medicating appropriately. Three years ago I swallowed my first antidepressant. I've been on four different antidepressants since then: Citalopram made me anxious and suicidal; mirtazapine tranquillized me, took away my mental agility and made me fat; cymbalta was a love affair but it's affects were short lived and eventually we grew apart; fluoxetine made me aggressive in high doses, in lower doses it helped me bounce along the bottom of the mental health sea.

My working life these past 3 years has been a train crash. The hold this illness has over me makes me unreliable, anxious, fearful, socially awkward and completely without resilience to everyday stresses. I've gone from a £45k salary to living on benefits. I'd like to be well enough that I can work a year without another major depression tripping me up.

A year of uninterupted work growing my business. A year without my weight ballooning or shrinking under the influence of medication. A year without suicidal daydreams. A year of being a father and husband. A year without conspicuously missing seasons ... without a major depression.

It's been a while since I allowed myself to dream ahead a whole year. That is what this hour with a psychiatrist means to me.