Just A Spoonful Of Forcefulness Makes The Medicine Go Down

(I am seventeen years old and visiting a doctor with my dad concerning my severe anxiety problems. My dad has resisted taking me to see any therapy or psychiatry specialists for a long time, but has finally relented after realizing the issues I’ve been having aren’t just “hormones.” To my knowledge, this isn’t at a psychiatrist’s office, but a regular doctor — I think for insurance purposes. The first visit results in an anti-depressant medication for some reason. This first medication makes me less anxious but also causes me to sleep upwards of FIFTEEN HOURS a day, and I am incoherent and running into things, falling over, etc., within twenty minutes of taking it each day. I even have difficulty getting up out of a chair to walk the ten feet to my bed after taking it. I remember falling constantly and being hazy. The second visit results in a different medication that doesn’t have any noticeable effect, and also no real side effects, either. This third visit is the check-in to see how the [second medication] was working.)

Me: “I don’t know that these are working properly. I don’t feel anything different. I’m still anxious all the time.”

Doctor: “So. This medication isn’t working. Why are you depressed? Your mother — she loves you? Your father loves you? Think of happy things.”

Me: “Um. I’m not depressed. I have anxiety problems with insomnia and persistent heart palpitations.”

Doctor: “Okay, so, this medicine isn’t working. We’ll switch back to [first medicine]. [First medicine] worked.”

Me: “It… didn’t work, though. I wasn’t anxious because I was really sedated. I was sleeping almost the entire day and night.”

Doctor: “Yes. So, first medicine worked. Here’s a prescription.”

Me: “I’m not taking that again. It was awful.”

Doctor: “It worked. You will take [first medicine] again.”

Me: “No.”

(The doctor then ignores me completely and turns to my dad, instead.)

Doctor: *oddly firm and creepy* “The [first medicine] worked. She will take it.”

Dad: *pause* “Yeah, okay. Give me the script.”

(My dad took the script and we trashed it when we got to the car. It had gotten to the point where my dad was concerned the doctor was going to claim parental negligence and call CPS on him if he agreed with me! We never went back to that doctor again, and I’ve since had a lot of traditional therapy and am doing much better. Did I mention that doctor owned the pharmacy attached to his office? Shocker.)