Day Four: Symptomatic

I pull the car into a parking space at the large psychiatric group where Pendragon's office is and where I have been going for the past four years and turn off the engine. 7:50am Ten minutes to go. I have never felt like this going into an appointment with Pendragon. Over the past four years, I have come to trust him implicitly. I have gotten to a point where there is absolutely no subject that I cannot discuss with him and no vulnerability that I feel it necessary to protect in our sessions. Despite this immense trust, as I walk toward the door and feel the cool metal door handle beneath my palm, I realize that my heart is racing and I am, for the first time since I began therapy with Pendragon, nervous.

With some reluctance, I pull the door open and walk inside to the large, sterile lobby with it's outdated magazines and less than comfortable chairs. There is a glass window enclosed reception office with a cut out for talking and one for passing papers or objects between the lobby and the reception desk. On the ledge in front of the window is the sign in pad. I scribble my name and tell the receptionist who I am there to see and who I am. She crosses my name off a list and I go sit down to wait. After what seems like a gasp of time, Pendragon appears and greets me with his usual, "Hey, come on back.." and we walk back to his office.

I sink into the little couch, tucking one foot beneath me and exhale as he closes the door behind him. He sits down across from me and picks up his clipboard and pen to take notes as we talk. I suddenly find that I'm not sure where to begin, but despite this, I find that the knot in my gut unravels a bit and the tension in my shoulders eases. Pendragon asks me how I am doing this morning, since our conversation the day before. This one question is enough to help me find a starting place. We talk about my symptoms, possible triggers for the way I'm feeling, constructive things I can do to address my symptoms, and we talk about my seeing my psychiatrist to consult with him about the possibility of medication. At the mention of this last thing, I find a feeling of resistance come up. I have had medications before, but have found them almost completely ineffective. I am reluctant to explore this option and I say this. Pendragon encourages me to at least make an appointment and talk to my psychiatrist, Dr. Alt, about my symptoms and get his advice. I feel myself tense, but agree to make the appointment. He turns to his computer and checks to see when my already scheduled appointment is. We decide that it is soon enough and leave it as it is, but Pendragon adds that if things get worse or I need to talk, to call and leave a message. With that, we wrap things up, say goodbye, and I leave to go home.

As I go through the motions of paying the copay and getting in the car, I am not at all sure how I feel. I catch a glimpse of my face in the rear view mirror. My eyes look tired. My hands automatically reach for the seatbelt and ignition switch and before I am aware of having done it, I am driving down the road. I don't want to go through all of this again. I am so tired of this cycle of depression-remission-depression-remission. My hands grip the steering wheel a bit tighter and I exhale sharply, feeling on the verge of tears. But the tears don't come. Instead I am left with this horrible ache and a feeling that, despite just having had a chance to talk through this stuff and get it off my chest a bit, I am still falling. 

Coffee. I need some coffee. 

Just before I reach the interstate, I spot a McDonald's and pull into their drive through. As I sit beside the menu, the breakfast options catch my gaze. I left so early for my appointment that I had no time for anything much more than a mug of coffee and throwing my clothes on. For a moment, I contemplate the various offerings and then have a realization. I'm not hungry. I pay for my coffee and drive away, sipping it as I go.

I arrive home a bit later, still tired and unsure of exactly how I'm feeling. Gray asks how it went. I am tell him what we talked about. I tell him how I felt resistance at the suggestion of medication. I mention that I have an appointment with Dr. Alt the next week. I tell him that I don't know how I feel, but that I feel like I need to cry and for some reason, I can't. He embraces me and we stay like that for a bit, him holding me in silence. There is something I want to say, but I don't. It is the one thing that I downplayed to Pendragon. I want to tell Gray about the thoughts of suicide, but I don't. The depression pulls me deeper into its embrace and stills my tongue.