7-12-17

Psychiatrist #4 in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

  •  July 12, 2017, 12:59 a.m.
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I am pleased to announce, does not appear to be an idiot. I have a prescription for Zoloft, with her reasoning being that, since I don’t know what I’m feeling, it’s possible that I could “have some depression”. After two weeks of that, I see her again, and depending on how I’m doing she also wants to try an antipsychotic mood stabilizer, to hopefully help with the meltdowns. That sounds reasonable to me.
So, if I wind up on both, I’ll officially be taking a beta blocker, an antidepressant, an antipsychotic, a sedative, and pain killers. I wanted to appear genuinely disabled for the SSI judge. That should certainly do it.
I can see it now: Judge: “You look very composed.” Me: “It takes a lot of medication to keep me this way.”
She also wants me to get some blood work done which I dread, but I can go to any lab I like. So I’ll go to Betty, at Mercy, where I’ve gone twice before. She already knows my needle routine. The last time I went she referred to me as her “little vampire”.
She also wants to do some psychological tests. “It’s important to know what’s actually going on”. - Which means I’ll get the official “autism” label, (Well, more official than the informal diagnosis I presently have), and I’ll have more documentation for the judge.
So over all it was a surprisingly productive visit.
The Male went with, and forgot his cigarettes at home. So I got the entertainment of watching him fidget all the way back, going through nicotine withdrawals. Highly amusing.
When we got home, we had the first productive conversation that we’ve had since his income doubled. He actually talked to me about what he wants to do to the house, and I gave him a list of things that I think I need in the more immediate future, and he agreed, amicably. So I think (knock on wood) that we’re okay. - At least right this instant. I’m still only tentatively hopeful about whether this is him getting back to “normal”.
Oh yes, and he bought me some McDonald’s before the appointment; at what turned out to be the quietest fast food restaurant in this city that I’ve tried thus far. So that was nice; and I’ll go back there the next time I want cheeseburgers.
On the way into the building, I had a brief conversation with a guy in a wheelchair. He told me where the elevator was, and directed me to the door that I needed. And about the time I got into the elevator, it hit me: I don’t know how I knew, exactly; but from his tone of voice, and manner of speaking alone, I knew. He was like me. And for a moment I thought I might go back and tell him how nice it is to see “another one”; but I thought, no. That would look like a weird stalker thing to do. So I just went on. Now I wish I had. - Oh well. - Red sweat pants, bearded, wheelchair dude; you seemed pretty cool, whoever you are. (If I see him again I won’t miss the opportunity.)
I typed this on sedatives, and it shows, so now I’m going to crash. Salute

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