In the twelve years that I have been medicated, I have only had two of six psychiatrists who behaved like normal decent people.   One was a resident and the other an older woman who had been practicing for fifty years.  The rest of them were manipulative and/or cruel and/or incompetent and/or weird.  Now I have to find another one again and I don’t really trust my judgment.

The first psychiatrist I went to for evaluation of depression was terse and scowling.  I saw him for only fifteen minutes for him to tell me he could not see me and needed to send me somewhere else.  Why didn’t he just tell me that information on the phone?  He ripped me off for $100.  I felt angry and my kid parts were terrified.

The second seemed to be a sincere and competent woman, but her office was very far from where I lived.

The third psychiatrist was some kind of new wave Christian and I did not know that I had to agree with his religious beliefs in order to see him.  When I told him that I was not interested in being proselytized,  he  screamed that if I were not a Christian I had to hit the road.  I started crying. He watched silently and triumphantly never acknowledging what had just happened.  Just like abusers. I backed down from what I was saying.   I told my then therapist about him and she advised me not to go back to him.  It is scary to say that at the time I probably would have gone back because I was so unsure about my own perceptions about everything.  The psychiatrist acted as if there were something wrong with me and because he was the doctor and I was the person with DID or MPD back then; I figured he must be right, right?  Wrong.

The fifth psychiatrist worked mostly with children and adolescents.  My story of trauma and abuse scared her.  I was seeing her at a time when I was struggling with a professor harassing me in school and threatening my degree and graduation.   Number five moved to another office and never answered my phone calls.  I became suicidal.

Luckily for me, my fourth psychiatrist who had retired came back into practice because she was bored.  She was eighty-eight years old and ran her practice like a nosy grandmother in some ways.  She was all up in my business.  I kind of resented it, but she saved my life.  She told me some unpleasant outcomes of suicide, and I was very angry with her, however it was just what I needed to hear at that time.  I love her for being honest with me.

My seventh and current psychiatrist kind of creeps me out.  He seems to be gliding across the floor instead of walking.  He has never learned to pronounce my name correctly or help me deal with my ten year struggle with insomnia.  I have tried for two weeks to get an appointment with him to no avail.  Today I decided to try and just get a refill on my anti-depressant and was told that he could not give me a refill without an appointment!  Ok.  I think this will be my last appointment with him. 

Wait a minute.  The phone just rang and the doctor’s office called to say he left me some free antidepressant at the front desk.  At least he is concerned.  On the other hand, I cannot stop taking this particular drug abruptly or I will get deathly ill.  It happened before when I tried to get off the drug on my own.  Maybe he is just looking out for a malpractice suit.  I think it is time to move on, but to where?