You’ve Got Some Splainin’ To Do


It’s been three months since I last posted on here. *gulp*

My last post was so happy and positive. Wasn’t that lovely? Obviously things went awry after that.

Now, this started as a blog to share little snippets of my writing and to try out my witticisms on you poor, unsuspecting public. I think I need to take things in a different direction now.

I will still attempt to share some of my writing, but I’m also going to share some things that are deeply personal. I need this blog to be more of a journal where I can vent my frustrations with myself, the public at large, and, more specifically, the medical community.

Recently I received two diagnoses. Neither one was a shock to me per se. I’ve been dealing with the symptoms since I was a teenager, but recently something in the ole’ brain chemistry just went a little too full throttle, and I decided to finally seek professional help. Oh, suppose I should mention what those diagnoses are.

  1. Bipolar II — good ole’ depression and hypomania
  2. Generalized Anxiety Disorder — kinda self explanatory
  3. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

I made my decision to seek some real help in June (2016), and it wasn’t until last week (November 2016) that I finally had an appointment with someone. That, my dears, is a rant for another post. What’s really irritating me at the moment is how the medical community treats me when they hear my diagnoses. These are not mental health professionals, mind you. They are doctors, nurses, and receptionists in a diagnostic clinic.

So, reeling from my appointment with my psychologist, I call my family doctor to let him know what’s what and get a referral for a psychiatrist.

Snooty Mc’Snooty Pants answers the phone, won’t let me speak directly to my doctor’s nurse, treats me like a moron for wanting to speak directly to said nurse, and when I finally say, “Fine. This is what’s happening. Please give her a message for me,” she acts like I’m ridiculous and she doesn’t want to deal with me.

Side note: part of my anxiety extends to making phone calls. I HATE it. I stutter and sweat and try not to cry just making a normal phone call. This experience was the worst!

So, it’s been a week since I left that message. Still haven’t received a call back from the nurse. I’ve been spinning pretty well out of control the last two days, and I’mma need that psych referral STAT please. But I’m too scared to call back. Fuck my life.

UPDATE: I managed to call back yesterday…twice! First time nobody answered. Second time I got another receptionist who wouldn’t let me talk to the nurse, but at least she was nice about it. Said she’d leave a message for me. *crosses fingers* We’ll see! Trying to be hopeful about it 😀


Do your worst. I can take it. *gulps*

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