Expectations

I did not want to have ADD. On a personal level, my peers joked about the “stereotypically” ADHD-afflicted individual—or smuggled Adderall into parties. On a social level, the overall astronomic increase in diagnosing individuals with mental problems made me distrust the industry (pharmaceutical companies) and its purveyors (psychiatrists).

I expected the psychiatrist to be annoying and pushy, like most guidance counselors, who are surprisingly great at not listening. But the faux leather couch I was instructed to sit on in his office was the softest thing I had ever sat on and shortly I no longer felt that seeing a psychiatrist was a negative reflection on whom I was as a person.

I expected all psychiatrists to have calming voices that lull you into accepting their verdict, whether it is correct or not. Any physician can point to my blood work and conclude without error that I am 100% diabetic. How do you point to someone’s anything and say they are 100% clinically depressed or manic-depressive? I assumed my psychiatrist would ask me a couple of questions, diagnose me with whatever condition I came in to question, give me a prescription, and send me away.

Instead, my psychiatrist invited discussions, participation, about a number of things. I felt I had a chance to convey my skepticism, which he listened to before changing the way I looked at the diagnosing of mental illness in the US.

In a way, my expectations were superseded. I had feared the worst. I expected no one would listen to me. It was odd, but reassuring, to have a physician make note of my fears and aspirations before sending me away. Yes, psychiatrists should be forced to interact more closely with a patient’s psyche, but why not all physicians? Diabetes is still terrifying—should that blame then fall on endocrinologists?