Note: This is not a rant against all psychiatrists–just a rant against one in particular.
My husband and I are both clinically depressed. We see different psychiatrists for our medications. I’m taking Celexa, and it’s working quite well for me.
My husband has been taking Paxil. After the first six weeks, there was no noticeable improvement, so he told the doctor about it. The doctor increased the dosage, and added another med. The combination left my husband in a perpetually zombie-like state. So, the doctor stopped the second medication, but left the Paxil at the raised dosage.
The depression that my husband suffers from causes him to not want to do much of anything, including actually keep his doctor’s appointments. This doesn’t help matters at all. But today, I made an appointment for him, and we went together. I was going to give the doctor my take, in the hopes that he’d see that in my husband’s case, the Paxil is completely ineffective. I also brought a book about depression with me, because I found something in it about atypical depression that related directly to my husband (depressives often cannot correctly relate their own symptoms to the doctor, and this can often result in ineffective or incorrect treatment). I thought that since I am being successfully treated myself, and I live with my husband and his illness, the doctor would welcome any input from me.
I was wrong.
I wasn’t given the opportunity to tell him how miserable things are right now. I nearly had to force him to read the part of the book that described precisely how my husband is. I told him flat-out that the Paxil wasn’t working, and my husband told the doctor that he wasn’t happy with it.
The doctor raised the dosage. Again.
[begin rant]
What part of “it isn’t working” didn’t you understand? Yes, my husband is a physically large man. But the Paxil already makes him sleepy–now you’re putting him on enough to turn him back into a zombie. We’ve got toddlers at home, pal, and my husband is a stay-at-home father. Chronic sleepiness is not an option. And how DARE you blow me off like that! You’re just a doctor–I’m his God-damned wife, and I live with this shit every fucking day. If ANYONE has a clue, it’s me. You want to know how he feels? Don’t ask him–he doesn’t know. Depression does that. He feels like shit, and that’s all he knows. He has no idea how it’s affecting me, and he’s so self-absorbed by it that he doesn’t recognize the damage that it’s doing. That’s why I came in with him today–something I should have done a long time ago.
And when we left, and you thanked me for coming, I hope you know it was all I could do to keep from saying “Fuck you very much.” Instead, after the door shut, I turned to my husband and said “I’m sorry I didn’t come in here sooner. And tomorrow morning, we’ll be finding you a new doctor.”
I will tell the new doctor about you. Of course, I should have told you about you, but I think I was too much in shock. But tomorrow, I will begin my campaign. I know lots of folks who see psychiatrists, and lots more who either want to, or deeperately need to. I will do my best to keep them away from you. Of course, I won’t be ending your career. But maybe I can point one more person toward proper treatment, and away from your sorry ass.