Taking Care of Me

For my birthday instead of joyously celebrating my quarter century mark, I spent the day doing unpleasant yet necessary things. I had scheduled a doctor’s appointment for a full STD and HIV testing. Ever since A. disappeared on me and I found out I really didn’t know the man I’ve been uneasy. So as I lay on the table being swabbed and poked I cursed the man who put me there and made me doubt everything I knew about myself.

What I wasn’t expecting when I scheduled the tests was the “counseling” from my Doctor prior to the exam. He said that these tests were usually precipitated by some event. While I understand the reasoning behind a series of questions that just embarrassed me and made me so upset I ended up in tears, it didn’t make me feel any less uneasy. He needed to determine if enough time had elapsed so that the tests performed would end up with accurate results. The answer I gave as to what precipitated my visit was that I recently stopped seeing someone and I can’t believe anything he told me now. He automatically assumed I caught A. cheating on me, which for all I know he could have been, but I had never consciously thought of that as a possibility. After offering some feeble, “men can be such assholes”, sentiment and after I started crying over it he launched into his detailed list of personal questions- including what I would do should the HIV test come back positive.

After I was dressed he came back in to talk to me a bit more about when to expect results and how I could get them. I was still obviously upset over the whole experience and he asked if there was anything he could do for me. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, but how he said it, accompanied by that look of mixed pity and concern for an obviously distressed young woman, that delivered a punch to my stomach. It’s a look I had seen before three years prior when filling out one of my very early prescriptions for antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications. The doses were high enough that when mixed together could cause hallucinations, which the pharmacist had cautioned me about. And then he gave me that look and asked with genuine concern how I was doing. I had never had a stranger express that kind of compassion towards me and it left me feeling confused and grateful. I’m sure if I hadn’t been so young, pretty, and so obviously in anguish that the interaction would never have happened.

The end result was that I asked to be put back on antidepressants, except this time instead of the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor and norephinephrine/dopamine reuptake inhibitor combo I wanted just the N/DRI. While I’m hopeful that this will be enough to ease me back to normalcy I’m also resigned to the fact that I am unable to cope on my own. My only consolation is that the N/DRI has fewer negative side effects and if it works and I can find some small slice of happiness again then it will have all been worthwhile.

I just hurt and it won’t stop.