Dialogue of the day:

The doctor looks at the paper, then looks at me. “Well according to this you are down to 14 points from 20. At least we’re moving in the right direction right?”

She’s referring to a list of statements on a piece of paper that I have just looked over and applied to my own life/situation. 6 months ago I scored a 20, which is high and refers to being very depressed, as opposed to my current 14, which I assume represents a “mild” glum rather than “very” glum. Or something. It’s a stupid list where you can circle “not at all,” “somewhat,” “more often than not,” or “all the time.”

I felt the tears damming up behind my lashes and I heard myself say to her “Yeah well all I know is how I feel in my life day to day–not what some stupid survey on depression tells me I feel.”

Then she left to print out my scrip and I sat in the chair wiping my tears off with such shaking fists–I was so angry. Angry and defeated because I sat alone in that room, and I felt like I had found another dead end to curl up in. Why isn’t there an answer for this? Who tells the truth on those damn things?

“Do you feel like you still struggle with anxiety?”

“I know I do.”

They referred me to the in-house psychiatrist, sent me off with an elevated doseage and instructions to talk to the front desk about scheduling an appointment with said psychiatrist. On my chart the doctor has noted “asap.” Funny thing is the psychiatrist’s next opening? Late-October.

Commence the pre-recorded, canned laughter.