Don’t get me wrong, I love my PCP. Hands down, he is the best family doctor we’ve ever had.
In regards to my anxiety and depression, he was the first person that I had ever been somewhat honest with. He was the first person who prescribed me an antidepressant. On that first visit, he believed every word I had said and took my claims seriously. The process had been quick and the results have been effective. I thank him endlessly for this, because boy-howdy (this time last year) my mental health was in the pits. In the time span of just one year, I have made great improvements. Like, people tell me this to my face. Friends and family have noticed that I’m a better version of who I once was. If I didn’t trust my doctor, I would probably still be sitting on this secret. That is, and not to be grim, if I were still alive to intentionally keep it.
That’s the reality that I have to remind myself of.
Yes, it was that bad.
So why do I still lie? For the same reason that I waited so many years to finally seek treatment: I am terrified that if I confide in someone about the extent of my suffering, I’ll be misunderstood. I really don’t want to say anything that’ll raise red flags. I don’t fear treatment, but I coil at the thought of being seen as dramatic, to be seen as weak, or as an inconvenience. That is why, before even telling my doctor anything, I preface my speech by affirming how much I am a fan of living.
That’s what I did tonight.
I just got home from a sixth month follow-up. My vitals have improved, I’m still losing weight (on doctor’s orders), and my other conditions are stable. But I’m not as comforted about the results of this appointment as I should be.
Because I lied.
I lied about the dosage of Lexapro that I’ve been self-administering every night. I lied about being okay with only raising my prescription to 20 mg. I lied about not considering more counselling.
So for the next three months, until I have to go back in the office for another follow-up, I’ll be in the same boat that I have been paddling since January. Now I’m scared that these next three months will be nothing but me feeling stuck in this stage of my depression/anxiety and swimming in regret for not speaking up.
Ultimately, I’ll be fine. I’ll either fix this or ride it out. But really it would have been so much easier to curb my fear of being 302’d and just be honest.
There’s a lesson here: don’t lie to your doctor. Don’t sugar coat shit.