The diagnosis has been established this time last year, but it took a long time before I got any kind of treatment. Waiting-lists and all that. To be more accurate, I score high on symptoms from the depressive spectrum. I don’t know why the change. Maybe because of the DSM-V? I can’t say that I care all that much. It’s something to be getting on with, and that’s the main point.
I went into the doctor’s office with this complaint, this suspicion that the depression had come back, or resurfaced from 9 years ago, in August 2014. A while ago, I agree. I don’t like that it’s taken this long either. I get that there’s waiting-lists, but I don’t have to like it. It feels almost disrespectful of those who need help.
I went in in August, but I didn’t get tested until January 2015. In the meantime, while I was waiting for that to happen, I did see someone at the GP’s office. Sort of like a liaison-officer, for want of a better term, between the GP and the mental health-professionals.
Anyway, I got the diagnosis, and then I had to wait again. I had been placed on a waiting-list for treatment, and I got called for another intake in September, I think. I didn’t get my anti-depressants, which I am on because I need them to stop the negative thoughts that are part and parcel of a depression, until December 2015. Therapy started this past January.
I spent more than a year to get this far. *sighs* I don’t like that anymore than other people would, and I can’t say in all honesty that the wait was worth it. I mean, the meds work, and so does the therapy, but still, it’s not something that I would care to repeat anytime soon.
Annnd, I am stalling. Circumventing the issue. It’s not the waiting that I wanted to talk about, even though it’s been an annoyance. It’s more why I waited this long to tell other people. In short, it’s because I’ve been ashamed. As I said, I’ve dealt with depression about 10 years ago. I don’t remember much about that time. I don’t have many records of it either.
It feels…odd, and as something that I shouldn’t be having to deal with again, that I am depressed (still, again. I don’t know that I can say that I was healed back then. Dealt with it, maybe, but not over it the way you can get over a broken bone.)
Ashamed that I am not neurotypical, and right now can’t say that I ever will be. It’s not that I am afraid of being dependant on the meds, because if my fears are right and this is a chronic thing, it would be the same as having to take meds to handle one’s diabetes.
Just ashamed that I have this, really. I know that this is not the end-all be-all of who and what I am. I am more than just this depressive state, this illness, this disorder. That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, not right now.
But I can’t hide this either. It’s not something that I can deal with alone. True, this is what the depression would like, to keep you alone and away from other people. Because it doesn’t want you to get better. It just wants you to suffer. Because it’s a jerk.