Boxed In

Wish Things Were Different

Dr. Lin led me through the main room, where the other patients spent the day. I kept my eyes forward, but watched them through my peripheral vision. Most of them stared at me as I walked past. The rest had learned it was easier to mind their business. I paid no mind to them anyway. They couldn't help me.
He disappeared into a room on the left, and I followed him in. They had a desk with a big computer, and smaller one beside it. Paperwork filled the mahogany wooden surface. There was a rolling stool chair in front of the desk, and across the room was a long black couch. I could have laughed at the irony.
I stayed standing at the door, even after the doctor closed it behind us and went sat in his stool. Here we go, I thought.
"So, Odessa—,"
"Dez," I interrupted. Spare me the lesson on reverse bedside manner; I'm in a mental hospital, for Pete's sake.
He cleared his throat and scratched the side of his face. "Right.. uh, Dez." He looked down at his clipboard and back up at me. "Well, why don't you come have a seat?" He gestured to the couch.
I stayed quiet for a few moments as I contemplated giving him a snide response or complying quietly. I settled for a compromise.
"Sure, doc, let's order room service while we're at it. Think they have shrimp cocktail?"
I plopped down on the couch and crossed my arms loosely.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but again I cut him off.
"Look, let's cut the chitchat and get to the point. This is the part where you read my file, tell me some 'concerning factors' about my mental health, and prescribe me some medication that doesn't work, then prescribe me a different type of medication that doesn't work in a different way. You don't remember me because you're new here, but I'm a repeat offender. I've done this before, with Dr. Reyes. Your dog and pony show doesn't work on me."
Dr. Lin scrutinized me carefully, as if he was pondering how he could get himself out of his dilemma; the dilemma being me. We both know I had said was true, and I had him in a corner.
"Well, Odes—," He cleared his throat and paused, undoubtedly trying to decide between respecting my preferred name and the formality required between patient and physician. He took a loophole.
"Ms. Mallen." He folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. "It's only a protocol that we have to follow. Your diagnoses are based off of your bloodwork and brainwave patterns. As it says here, you've been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder— which is very common among young adults— as well as a moderate form of schizophrenia. However, upon reading into your file and monitoring your behavior, we have reason to believe that this diagnosis was wrong."
My breath caught in my throat, as if the air in my vicinity was robbed from me. Ever since I heard those ugly words two years ago, my mind had been in a cage, trapped in the reality that I really was crazy. I felt a twinge of hope.
But all I did was blink and nod slowly. "So? What's it mean, then?"
"Your assessment results showed prominent features of severe bipolar disorder. And ever so often, it can manifest into something commonly mistaken as schizophrenia. With your chronic anxiety as well as being bipolar, it was easy to draw that conclusion the first time."
He paused to let me consume this newfound information. Bipolar disorder. Translation: "you're only slightly less crazy than what we initially thought."
Bipolar disorder. I couldn't grasp it yet. It made sense. My moods changed so quickly, it made my head spin. And that was only the short term effects. The memory of my depressive episodes popped up. I'd be fine one night, or as fine as I could be, and the next morning I felt so drained. It was like something had flipped a switch, and I couldn't move. Couldn't speak, couldn't think. It was rock bottom.
I suppressed a shudder at it. It was awful.
"— a new approach."
I blinked a few times and nodded, but I hadn't heard but three words from his mouth. "Huh?"
"Upon your precious diagnosis, you were prescribed with Zyprexa, which, according to your file, you had... certain reactions to."
Understatement of the year, doc.