A delicious Lamotrigine cocktail.
Lamictal, lamictal.
I love how if you hand me something illegal, I'll most likely take it. However, if you prescribe me a drug, I'm all over WebMD looking up what rash I'm going to die from.
Dr. Vander Kooi is so uptight. I'm wondering how often the man gets laid.
Going down general list of depression symptoms:
"Loss of appetite?"
"Dr. Vander Kooi, does it look like I am suffering from a loss of appetite?"
He laughs. I look out the window.
"Where are you now, Sara?"
"I'm in this really generic looking office with you and we're in some upscale part of town."
He smiles.
"What is today?"
"I'm not delusional, nor am I disoriented. I just really have no fucking idea what day it is because I haven't gotten out of bed in awhile. It's like the ninth or tenth."
"The tenth..."
"Right."
I think the scariest part about it all is that within 45 minutes after meeting the Dutch doc, he was comfortable with putting me on medication. Shit, I could have been a pathological liar. What if I had lied and said I was experiencing different symptoms? Would I be on an anti-psychotic? This is alarming to me...
Jill called me at like 9 in the fucking morning to tell me that she's scheduling me an appointment for Monday at one in the afternoon. In my sleepy stupor, I tried to argue that one was early. To which she replied, "No Sara, you're getting your ass out of bed." This is why I love my therapist.
I love how if you hand me something illegal, I'll most likely take it. However, if you prescribe me a drug, I'm all over WebMD looking up what rash I'm going to die from.
Dr. Vander Kooi is so uptight. I'm wondering how often the man gets laid.
Going down general list of depression symptoms:
"Loss of appetite?"
"Dr. Vander Kooi, does it look like I am suffering from a loss of appetite?"
He laughs. I look out the window.
"Where are you now, Sara?"
"I'm in this really generic looking office with you and we're in some upscale part of town."
He smiles.
"What is today?"
"I'm not delusional, nor am I disoriented. I just really have no fucking idea what day it is because I haven't gotten out of bed in awhile. It's like the ninth or tenth."
"The tenth..."
"Right."
I think the scariest part about it all is that within 45 minutes after meeting the Dutch doc, he was comfortable with putting me on medication. Shit, I could have been a pathological liar. What if I had lied and said I was experiencing different symptoms? Would I be on an anti-psychotic? This is alarming to me...
Jill called me at like 9 in the fucking morning to tell me that she's scheduling me an appointment for Monday at one in the afternoon. In my sleepy stupor, I tried to argue that one was early. To which she replied, "No Sara, you're getting your ass out of bed." This is why I love my therapist.