Mental Health Can Be Hell

So just over a week ago I trooped myself and the boys down to the trusty Mental Health Center - located the typical "oh-so-convenient" (not) 30 minutes from my home. I had called to become a new patient, only to be informed that they did not accept new patients over the phone - you are required to "walk-in" the first time - supposedly to fill out all the documentation, but the cynic in me suspected they really just like to get a look at the patients to determine if they should just put them in a straight jacket in a rubber room straight away.

The harried receptionist, from behind her four foot high desk and quarter-inch-thick plexiglass window, handed me a clipboard of paper work and explained in an "I'm not sure how crazy you are, so I'll talk slowly" tone that I should be careful to check for a back side to each page and fill out all information completely.

I found a padded chair, in a corner of the inexplicably spacious waiting area, and sat down next to a table covered with kids toys so Jack could play while I filled out yet another set of forms that would want to know my entire medical/mental history.

Finding the toys were actually bolted to the top of the coffee table? Okay, that made me a little nervous. In fact, it was at that moment that it suddenly dawned on me that I was not in D's comfy, very homey office any more. This was a serious clinical institution; behind those big locked doors was an inpatient facility for people with dangerous tendencies and total nervous breakdowns. A few people in the waiting room were visibly agitated, and I was suddenly glad for the buffer zone afforded by the size of the room.

I had to take a few deep breaths and remind myself that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't necessary - that this disorder has had such a crushing impact on my life that I really have no choice but to deal with it now that I have a name to put to it. And this is the only place to find a licensed psychiatrist within an hour of my house who took my insurance. I really didn't have any other options, so I heaved a sigh and started writing.

I finished filling out my stack of paperwork and headed back to the counter. The receptionist informed me that they were at a three to five week wait for an appointment with a psychiatrist. I told her I was hoping to be seen at the satellite office, which is only a few miles from my house, and she brightened up and said that the delay should be much shorter there. She briefly talked with another woman behind the fortress window, then returned to tell me they weren't sure if the doc at the local office was on my insurance. The other woman went to check something "in the back" which would, presumably, give her that information.

I stood there uncomfortably for a few minutes, the infant carrier in my hand growing heavier by the second. The receptionist opened her window, apparently having caught sight of the top of Jack's curly head, and leaned out to see him.

"Oh my goodness! Is he yours?"

I confirmed that yes, indeed, I am the owner of the "Hemi Engine in a PowerWheels body" that is my oldest son. She gushed over him for a moment, and I realized she must have decided I couldn't be all THAT crazy because, after all, a madwoman could hardly have such adorable (and clean) children, right? I ignored the awkwardness of the situation and thanked her pleasantly for her compliments. Jack, having recognized an audience, decided to tell her that he is getting a puppy for learning to "go poopy in the potty!". She laughed, while I squirmed a little at the curious looks from around the waiting room.(Why oh why must the boy have inherited his father's carrying timbre? Couldn't he have a nice quiet voice, like me? Especially when discussing bowel movements? In front of the crazies?)

Finally, the other woman returned to say that the information they needed was apparently proving more difficult to find than she thought. Could I call them tomorrow to find out if I could be seen at the local office? Relieved to have an opening for escape, I said that would be fine and beat a hasty retreat to the car.

I called the next day only to be told (without explanation) that I should call back in a week and they would have something for me. SO, looking at my calendar this morning, I realized it had been a week and (with lots of self-talk to overcome my as-yet-unexplained anxiety over making phone calls) dialed their number again.

Bada-bing, we have an appointment. In approximately a week and a half, I will be sitting down with a bona-fide Psychiatrist for my official evaluation.

Want to know something? At this point, I have no doubts about the ADD. I have concerns about it sure, but at least I know what it is and what can be done about it. That's actually not what worries me the most.

What I'm most afraid of is what ELSE the shrink might say. The part of me that grew up blissfully ignorant of so many things and never gave a moment's thought to mental illness? That part would just as soon STAY ignorant of what else is likely wrong with my brain.