I am so ashamed. For no good reason, really.
As part of my 'getting to grips with things' approach recently, I asked the GP if there was any help available from the Community Psychiatric Team. They offer CBT and that kind of thing, which I have found very helpful in the past and which B and I felt might help me with a bit of extra support now.
However, instead of offering me anything like that, I was given an appointment with a psychiatrist. It's peculiar, isn't it? I am happy with the idea of seeing a psychologist for talking-type therapies and I refuse to be stigmatised because I am suffering from depression. But being referred to a psychiatrist makes me feel dirty and ashamed and very, very scared.
I know that this probably comes from the period in my teens when I suffered from chronic fatigue syndrome and as a family we/I were/was referred for all sorts of bizarre and positively damaging 'family therapies' and psychiatry, which were no help at all. And I was repeatedly told by my family that if I didn't 'pull myself together' then the psychiatric people would 'lock me away'.
But, unusually for me even knowing all of this, is not allowing me to rationalise my emotions away.
We went to the appointment yesterday to see what help they felt they could offer me. I was extremely reluctant to go and literally had nightmares all weekend about being trapped and needing to escape from places*.
The young woman that we saw (B came with me) took a case-history for about an hour and then announced that she would want to see me after my twenty week scan to check that the medication is not affecting the baby; and periodically after that to 'monitor my condition'.
Pointless. Time wasting. Bollocks.
The GP is 'monitoring' me.
The Health Visitor is 'monitoring' me.
The Midwife-with-six-organic-compost-heaps is 'monitoring' me.
The Sweary Obstretician is 'monitoring' me.
Over the last week I feel** as if I have spent more time attending and travelling to and from doctor's appointments that I have at home; and it's making me very, very stressed. Absolutely the last f-ing thing I need is yet another person 'monitoring' me. Particularly since all the people at the baby-end of things are perfectly happy with the very-incredibly-startlingly-low possibility that the low dose of escitalopram might-may-possibly not-yet-be-proven to be safe for pregnant people in the producing-a-baby-with-fins department because it hasn't been around for long enough.
I feel truly fucked about by them all and I am not going to see the psychiatrist again. I have also cancelled my 'monitoring' appointment with the GP and am not going to make another one unless I actually need some help.
Because, you know what? B and I are 'monitoring' me, too.
For today, slightly irritably, that is all. Next post - something not related to babies, pregnancy or depression, as even I'm getting bored by it all now and everyone else has probably nodded off.
* And about human-sized badgers dressed in plate armour and wielding broad-swords, oddly.