I see a great doc who manages my meds for depression and anxiety. That's all he does, not counseling or anything else. We just have quick checkins.
When I went into his office yesterday I launched into a litany of my woes. It was very frustrating because he kept asking questions about Ken's situation and the backstory. ("We aren't here to talk about him, dammit! - this is about me!")
I get that he wanted the backstory, but seriously? this is a 15 minute meds check. (Oh, so that's why he runs so late...when desperate folks like me show up, he takes the time he needs. What a concept! so humane!)
Yeah, so finally we got to me. He really called me out on my unwillingness to leave Ken at home (except to go to work) due to guilt, even to do the things I know I need to do, like Jazzercise. Put your own oxygen mask on first, blah blah blah. My head knows all those things. My heart does not.
So he wrote it on a prescription pad for me, Jazzercise 3x a week. And he gave it to me with the other prescriptions and said, "you know, these pills will not work unless you do the exercise. They WILL NOT WORK."
I meekly agreed, and went to Jazzercise. Afterward I stopped off at the bird-listening place. The birds on the playbill were grackles, not always the most melodious, but I took the time to hear them. Then a man with abeautiful yellow lab showed up and they played Fetch the Tennis Ball in the Pond.
Good end to a weird day.
