I saw my psychiatrist last week to get a refill of my meds. When I got to the pharmacy, the pharmacist told me that something was wrong with the codes. They had called the doctor, who said she was driving and would be calling back with the correct codes when she got home. I returned the next day and asked if the doctor had called back. The pharmacy tech rolled her eyes and said, "no." I did get my meds, only through the genius of the pharmacy staff. They were able to figure out the correct codes by using another patient's information.
If you've ever wondered why I hate psychiatrists, it's because of things like this. I've never found one who truly cares about my wellbeing. They care about getting their paycheck and kickbacks from the pharmaceutical companies and would sooner change specialties than care about their patients.
Oh! I forgot the best part! When I told the doctor that the meds I'm on have sent me into a depressive spiral and would like something to fix that, she told me that "things will even out when you get into a rhythm [sic]"
So, here I am, in a major depressive state, with no help to get out of it. I don't care about anything, not even work. Psychomotor agitation is quite possibly the worst thing about it. Wait... I lied. The frustration with myself and subsequent suicidal thoughts are the worst thing about depression.
"Hear Me"~ Imagine Dragons
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