Getting diagnosed (part 2)

This is the concluding part of last Saturday's post describing my desperate campaign for an official diagnosis.

 Eight months had passed by, and a myriad  of major changes had occurred in my life:

I had a new baby, making me a father for the second time in four years, I'd finally passed my practical driving test and I quit my job of five years to further my studies, a move I'd always been scared to make.

Suddenly, things started to plummet for me spiralling to a windfall of chaos which was beyond my control. I had pressures and problems in every single area of my life, leaving me clinically depressed. I was behind on my readings and assignments. I experienced minor disappointments in other sectors of my life which had major effects on me. I used to think a lot about ending it all. That is when I made a third attempt to seek help. At the same surgery. With a DIFFERENT GP this time.

Dr D was much younger than the previous doctor, though slightly balding. I spoke to him about my desire to get diagnosed, giving him valid reasons why my life depended on it. He listened with intense compassion, punctuating my sentences with an occasional "Awwww". That's how I knew he cared.

 He knew from the records that I'd been through the process before and was not successful at getting a diagnosis. I told him I did not have the means to seek a diagnosis privately and that a lot depended on my acquisition of this document. Furthermore, I confessed to him my fleeting thoughts that had doubled in frequency over the past few weeks. I found it hard to relate to my colleagues in my work placement. I wasn't confrontational or anything. I really liked them. They were a nice batch of people. I did whatever I could to support them. But there's this feeling of not belonging to most groups that follows me all the time. Also I was very quiet and mostly withdrawn, intently confused by all their social interactions in the staff room. My failure to engage them in a conversation and small talk like every other human being resulted in some expression on their faces that seems consistent with grudge and resentment. I felt under a lot of pressure. Fleeting thoughts. Again. 

To make matters worse, I had an issue with a very vocal member of staff who thought it helpful to publicly criticise my work in an attempt to achieve goodness knows what. (Earthlings call that"constructive criticism" in spite of the destruction it creates. I felt I should add it to a Manual of Absurd Terms alongside the likes of "friendly fire".) 

This last problem with my colleague compelled me to seek help before it was too late. On the surface, I appeared unfazed, smiling, and passive but no one could have foreseen the inner storms that ravaged my whole being.

 I requested that I be put on the drug I turned down months earlier. That is how I got on  a 10- month Citalopram (Celexa) course and a weekly Cognitive Behavioral Therapy session. I trusted Dr D so much that, for months, I missed what a neurotypical person would have discerned within the first few minutes of meeting him: he had no interest in securing  a diagnosis for me.

 I once walked into his office only to learn of the refusal that I be granted an assessment leading to a diagnosis because "I wasn't suicidal". Once again, I was baffled beyond words. He knew of my thoughts. That was why I was put on Citalopram in the first place. Why couldn't he tell them? I opened my mouth to voice out my protest but I felt a tightness in my throat resulting in a type of"glottal stop" that prevented the emergence of word and sound. Simultaneously, I seemed to undergo a cross between a  memory lapse and a disconnection between brain and body. I had no mental script ready for this unforeseen twist. My over-analytical mind worked out that very strong emotions and speech could not function concurrently within my central processing system. Finally, I was allowed 2 words by my brain: " O.K., thanks." And I was out sooner that I expected.

 I kept taking the drug, which was the best thing I'd ever done that actually addressed my fears and low episodes. I saw the GP weekly, then fortnightly, then monthly, before I decided I'd had enough of this useless trip. I haven't seen him since the summer. I also attended a completely useless CBT session for a while until I went on holiday with my family in the summer and missed one session in the process. I was quickly discharged. Thank goodness. It was a complete waste of time during which they tried to make me like football so that I could join in conversations. Finally, after a few disagreement with relations regarding their perception of antidepressants, I went off the drug. I tapered off by taking half the dose for 3 weeks, then the same dose every other day and one beautiful morning, I made the decision to go cold turkey, anticipating major withdrawal symptoms. Nothing of the sort happened with the exception of slight dizziness whenever I looked sideways, and the return of the low moods I was born with. 

This concludes my post on getting diagnosed. It is an unfinished post because I'm still in the active process of seeking an avenue to getting diagnosed...