Brio. Doc.

I should be updating more often.

This Monday I visited Dr. White. Turns out my drug test results were clean. I will admit, I was concerned, but not worried. Had my results returned positive, I would have accepted it as fate. Not sure how the Doc would have received it, especially after hearing about my drug history. I wouldn’t have blamed him either. It would be ironic as hell.

The day of my appointment I was apprehensive and nervous. I had been so straightforward with him throughout our discussions, making no attempt to avoid complete transparency. It came to mind that having a drug test come up positive would instantly jeopardize my integrity and dismiss my entire credibility. Though, I knew my intentions were pure and I should have nothing to worry about.

I arrived at his office a bit later than usual and sat in the waiting room. I peeked my head around the corner and noticed his office door open. It was 4:36pm. My appointment was a 4:30pm. I sat a few minutes longer till 4:41pm, checking around the corner every so often to catch the noises coming from his office. I explored my nervous thoughts: “Do I wait here, or do I go to his open door to alert him of my presence? Had my results come back positive? Was he upset I was a few minutes late? I wonder what he thinks of me, test results positive and I’m showing up late? What does this say about me”. Silly thoughts.

So, dismissing my thoughts, I coolly decided that I should take some sort of action. I cautiously approached the door and saw him sitting at his desk, tapping on the keys of the computer. I knocked on the frame. “Hey Doc”, I said impishly, and he swung around on his chair, “I apologize, but I arrived a few minutes late and wasn’t sure if I missed you and should let you know I’m here, or if I should have continued waiting in the hall for you…” Before I had finished talking, he was at the door to greet me, motioning for me to enter. “Well you’re right,” he asserted, “you were late and you should have waited, but now you’re here so that’s not important. Come, sit down.” His remarks felt chastising, yet harmlessly casual. It left me feeling like I had committed a foul act, but that since the deed was done, life will continue best if we forget it. Weird.

I sat down and asked him how he was today, handing him the student-appointment form. Candidly, he relied “Good. Sorry we won’t be talking about your existential god crisis today. I know you don’t wanna talk about that anymore. That was fun for a bit, and I hope you figured that out, but we’re gonna talk about some more pertinent business today.”

In my head I was like… um… wait… uh… I do like talking about that. I thought that was a constructive conversation. jerk. wait.. pertinent business? my drug test…eek. what does that mean?

He asked how I had been feeling since then. I explained I started a disciplined workout regimen with a friend, and that I felt great. I told him how easy it was to be swallowed by the vacuum of stressful workloads and forget that the very cure was making time to work out. He agreed like it was a poor excuse to an obvious truth.

“So you’re drug test results came back today…,” he paused, leaving a suspension of silence hanging in the air as he rummaged through papers on his desk, then continued “clean, so we will get you a prescription written today.” Gosh. I gave a reluctant sigh of relief, simply because I had been telling myself I was clean all along and that it didn’t matter anyway.

The remainder of the appointment involved taking my blood pressure, explaining possible drug side effects, and ways to contact him in the event of an emergency such as a manic attack (wtf? I guess this is s.o.p.) or any other crisis. He printed out the prescription, explained how to fill it, and handed it to me folded. I felt like I was doing a drug deal. I just acquired a class 1 drug. Speed. Amphetamines.

I suddenly felt a wave of guilt. Guilt I quickly dodged. Psychiatrists and their drugs. He is not interested my in my well-being, per se. Psycho-pharmacology. I guess it’s not his job to care about the person, since he doesn’t fix people. His drugs do that work. Psychiatrists save the job of caring about a persons mental well-being to psychologists and therapists. Why the hell do I feel like this is a faulty way of approaching patients? This is a false dichotomy. The mind and body? The mind and brain? They are one in the same and should be treated as such. He’s probably a shitty doctor. I know there are great ones out there. Just irks me.

That doctor was too highfalutin, too self absorbed to notice the humbled and searching state of a person’s spirit when they seek the help of a doctor to guide them through their distress. Instead they are viewed as potentially damaged creatures where, upon his divinely authorized discretion, he provides the devices to cure them. Aye.

***
So he prescribed me Vyvanse, on the account that Vyvanse can not be abused since it metabolizes into dextroamphetamine only after it is processed by the liver. Initially he wanted to put me on 40 mg, which seemed like a high dose considering 20 mg of Adderall makes me feel like I’m on crack, but I explained that stimulants plague me with anxiety, so he reduced it to 30 mg. We’ll see how this works out.

My first day was pretty great. I mean, I’m still not fond of feeling like I’m on drugs, but its incredible how on-task I become. It is not a cure all by any means, and my environment and local distractions still play a major role in whether I continue to stay on task. However, when I place myself in a distraction free zone, with a check list of priorities, things get done without the hassle of battling random thoughts in my head.

At the moment I feel out of sorts. My thoughts aren’t too linear. Thanksgiving break started yesterday, but I’m at a debate tournament at Appalachian State University. I’m not debating, though. No partner since the majority of people decided to go home for break. I figured I could gain some additional experience.

blah. done.