Drained

I went to a diagnostic assessment at the Anxiety Clinic yesterday. We sat in a small circle of chairs in a very large office: the diagnostician, the psychology resident (my prospective therapist), and myself. Over a long, long three hours they asked everything; and I told them. Everything. All of the obsessions and compulsions, from the most sickening to the most trivial. All about the frequent feelings of depersonalization, derealization and just-plain-lostness; the fears that my self, my personality could be lost or stolen from me. By the time I had finished talking about it all, I was feeling that the medication had put my monsters on ice but not killed them; all it took was a good thaw and they'd be ripping at me again.

The diagnostician could not understand how an obsessive thought could be simultaneously repugnant and compelling; nor could she understand how a depersonalized state might be alternately protective or terrifying. Though bright and very likeable, her working mentality is that of one who must either tick the box, or not tick the box. That is not a good sign. Perhaps it's simply outside her scope; however, if the resident can't grasp such essential paradoxes and dynamics then we're in trouble. I wasn't able to get a good read on the resident, aside from a general sense of purposefulness and intelligence- she sat quietly throughout the interview. I gather she hasn't had much clinical experience. On the bright side, that means I'll be in the driver's seat... on the dark side it means that I'll be in the driver's seat.

And now I await the verdict.