Today I have an appointment with a behavioral health specialist, to follow up after the panic attack that lasted over an hour and put me in the hospital more than a month ago. Evidently, this is the soonest they could work me in. Glad it wasn’t a heart condition, if that’s as fast as a specialist can see you these days. You’d all be like “Remember that chick who used to write those crazy steampunk fairytales? Yeah, she died. Super sad.”
My experience with behavioral health professionals has been fairly mixed over the years. The worst example, by far, was when I was hospitalized for depression in my early 20s. The military healthcare system, in their infinite wisdom, referred me to an off-base child psychiatrist whose grasp of English was… not great. Which made talk therapy a little problematic. Both times I agreed to go on medication, it didn’t go well. I rebounded for a few weeks, and then took a sharp turn for “way worse than before I started.”
Then again, I’ve had wonderful experiences with a combination of faith-based and traditional psychotherapy. So much so, I briefly considered going back to school to become a counselor.
My expectation is that the psychiatric NP will pat me on the head and instantly pull out a script pad. In which case, I’ll listen to what he has to say about my treatment about as well as he listens to me about my symptoms and condition.
I have some suspicions about the nature of my condition, though. And if the NP shows any signs of competence, I’d like to get a clear diagnosis finally. So we’ll see. Wish me luck.