At the end of September, when the antidepressant I was on made me go wonky, I asked my doctor to refer me to a psychiatrist.

 And then I waited.

 And waited.

 And waited some more.

 Because, while I usually have nothing but praises to sing about the Canadian health care system, when it comes to mental health care, if you don’t have a knife to your throat, you’re shit out of luck. If you want to get in with a psychiatrist for the first time, you have to wait three to six months, no matter how bad you are doing. As long as you’re not actively suicidal or homicidal, you wait.

 I waited five months. By the time my appointment came up, I was feeling fine. My drugs were working and I wondered if I even needed a psychiatrist after all. But, given my family history, I decided to go anyway. It couldn’t hurt, right?

 Wrong. Oh, so very wrong.

 The psychiatrist, whom I shall call Dr. R, came very highly recommended from my family doctor. I had told her, “I want someone who will allow me to be an active participant in my own care, who will listen to me.” She said this woman is fantastic and very compassionate. I adore my family doctor and we get along quite well, so I trusted her opinion.

 My appointment was three weeks after I had major jaw surgery, and only one week after I had my jaw unwired, so I was still on some painkillers and having problems getting enough calories into my body. That didn’t really help my emotional state going into the appointment.

 However, I was determined to have a positive attitude and to be open-minded. Sitting in that waiting room, I tried not to be nervous and instead psyched myself up (hah), telling myself: this is something I’m doing to make my life better and ensure I am going to be healthy long into the future.

 I quickly figured out that this appointment wasn’t what I was hoping it would be, no matter how much positive energy I tried to throw at it. The moment I told Dr. R my family history and the adverse reactions I had to the Effexor and Wellbutrin, she decided I was Bipolar II and tried to fit everything I said into that diagnosis.

 I’m not disputing the diagnosis itself; it’s a fair hypothesis, and one that I have considered myself. However, I have a huge problem with a doctor diagnosing a patient within five minutes and then “accusing” her of all kinds of behaviour that doesn’t exist.

As the “interview” (or interrogation, as it became) went on, the two of us got more and more frustrated, and the conversation grew heated. She was frustrated because I refused to just accept what she was telling me about myself, and I was frustrated because she wasn’t listening to me or considering my explanations for my decisions or behaviours.

 And then it just got plain weird.

 Dr. R: Do you ever spend large amounts of money?

Savia: Sure. I have a house. I’m doing home renovations right now.

Dr. R: How are you paying for that?

Savia: A line of credit.

Dr. R: That’s hypomanic, irresponsible financial behaviour.

Savia: But I’m making an investment in my home, and my house value has quadrupled in the past seven years.

Dr. R: Going into debt for any reason is hypomanic.

Savia: What? But it’s not just any debt. It’s good debt.

Dr. R: There is no such thing as good debt.

Savia: But… [about to explain how her sewer blew up and also how the energy efficient renovations were eligible for a $3,000 government grant, which would pretty much pay for them, not to mention the savings on the monthly energy bills.]

Dr. R: [Cuts me off] The only way it would be acceptable for you to go into debt for home renovations is if you were selling your house and would get the money back right away.

Savia: [looks at her like she’s on smack] I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.

 Note how she didn’t even ask how much money I make or how much the home renovations cost or any other details that would have explained why I was going into debt for this project? It was all about absolutes. And let me just say, if going into debt for any reason makes a person bipolar, I guess the majority of North Americans have this disorder. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to get in with a psychiatrist?

 After that, it quickly went downhill. She snapped her questions at me and cut off my answers. Any time I tried to explain or elaborate on one of my answers, she said, “You’re rationalizing your behaviour.”

Um…no…I’m just trying to give context – the grey answer to a question that she tried to make black and white. Because life isn’t like that – it’s all about the shades of grey.

 At the beginning of the appointment, I was quite succinct in my answers. But then, she would jump in and fire several more at me, obviously looking for more context. So, I started giving more thorough answers. She never smiled and she cut me off a lot, which made me really nervous and uncomfortable. I started talking faster and being less concise. At one point, she stopped, tilted her head, smirked at me and said:

 Dr. R: You’re talking fast and circumventing the question. That’s hypomanic.

Savia: I’m nervous!

Dr. R: [cutting me off] There you go, rationalizing your behaviour again.

 I’ve lost count of how many arguments we got into in that hour and a half. Our personalities clearly do not mesh, and I could tell that she didn’t appreciate me challenging some of the things she was saying or asking questions to help me understand where she was coming from. We both ended the session thoroughly pissed off.

I was so angry and upset, not about the diagnosis (though that did scare me quite a bit, because I don’t want to have this disorder and I don’t want to have to take mood stabilizers, ever), but about the way she treated me. Her cruelty to someone so vulnerable cut very deep.

 I didn’t sleep at all that night, and then I cried for two days straight and fell into a depression. What if she was right, and all of these things that I consider as part of my personality are just a disease? I thought I knew myself really well, but if this is the case, who the hell am I, then?

 I talked to a few friends who’ve known me through all of the ups and downs, and they said the same thing, “You’re always Savia. No matter if you’re depressed or anxious, there’s still something about you that’s always there and doesn’t change.”

 And they were right. I tried to put Dr. R’s harsh words behind me and take the good out of the appointment. A few things that she said did ring true.

 For instance, when I told her that I don’t have hypomanic or manic episodes, she said that for me, hypomania may manifest itself as anxiety. I found that interesting, and it would fit with what’s been happening to me. She also gave me the signs of hypomania and told me to keep a mood chart for the next three months so I would have a record of my patterns.

 Dr. R said that the current drug mix I was on (Celexa and Wellbutrin together, in low doses) could put me at a higher risk for hypomania and that it would be better for me to be on just one of those drugs, or off them entirely and on a mood stabilizer, my reaction to which would serve as a diagnostic tool.

 She also told me to take Omega 3 fatty acids, which she said is the one thing that has been clinically proven to help with depression and mood disorders.

 So, I did take the good advice she had and used it to my advantage. I went off the Wellbutrin at the end of April and found that just being on the Celexa was much better for me. I started taking Omega 3s, along with a daily arsenal of B complex and Vitamin C, and am amazed at what a difference that makes in stabilizing my mood.

And last, but certainly not least, I am keeping a daily mood blog where I quickly jot my mood, appetite, sleep, spending, menstrual cycle, drugs and sexual interest levels. It takes me two minutes a day, but it has made me aware of some of the factors that affect my mood, which gives me the opportunity to deal with things before they get out of hand.

 And the best thing about the mood chart is that the next time I go to a psychiatrist (in six months, if I can get in with someone else, that is), I will have that record to show him/her. And, hopefully, I can avoid any further nastiness.

Because going to the psychiatrist is stressful enough without having to prepare yourself for a knock-down, drag-out fight with the person who is supposed to be helping you.