Bad things happen on Tuesdays. If something monumentally horrible happens in my life, it's probably a Tuesday.1
This time, it was a doctor visit.2
Let's flash back to almost two years ago--also on a Tuesday.
It's exactly one week after my (Tuesday) suicide attempt, and the shrink ordered me to get a checkup from my family doctor (because I haven't had one since I was four). The evil doctor-man--whose first name happens to be Rex--tells me things like "sometimes we do things to hurt the people that love us." I'm a ba-a-ad child (because I don't hate myself enough already), probably not depressed (before asking about symptoms, um...), and acted on impulse (an impulse that involved years of contemplation and months of planning). T-Rex never actually "checks up" anything, but spends about an hour pretty much telling me how badly I suck.3
Now, back to the present.4
Nurse-lady calls me in, gets my weight and BP, and tells me the doctor will be in in just a minute. So I sit in the nondescript office for about 45 minutes, wondering why the jar of cotton balls is labelled 'cotton balls' when it's obvious what's inside, before Rexy ever comes in to say hi. He asks me why I'm here (although he would've known if he'd checked the file he was pretending to study) and I tell him I need a referral to the ED clinic so I can start the head-shrinking crap (though I believe they tend to call it "outpatient therapy and nutritional counseling"). He asks what my disorder is. I bite back the "Well it's obvious by my fat rolls I'm not anorexic," and tell him bulimia like a good little girl, and when he asks how I purge and how often I tell him that it's by vomiting, and every day (but not so much recently, through a conscious effort).
He goes through the standard symptoms list. I raise my eyebrows if he asks if I've been experiencing vomiting... didn't I just tell him that? "Only every day for the last two years," I answer, which is a lot nicer than what I want to say.5
Dino Man tells me I'm doing the right thing, he's proud of me for taking this step, and so forth. Then he launches into a completely unrelated story about his eldest daughter's panic disorder. He makes no attempt to link it to my situation (though he usually does with me), but we have a nice chat on how she's been doing. Then he starts talking about how I'm not in a horrible situation, because my condition is fixable, and if the clinic doesn't work out for me nurse-lady's had a lot of luck (luck?) with patients with anorexia and bulimia--now I should keep in mind that "I don't know what kind of training she has, she's just had a lot of luck with those patients, but by going to a clinic where they, y'know, know what to do with you you're doing the right thing."6
All in all... not the most horrible doctor visit I've had. Which is saying something, because until the last bit it was still exceedingly unpleasant. And I still hate Tuesdays.
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That's a great story and I think you handled yourself well (it's always a good idea not to get on the bad side of doctors)! I'm sorry Tuesdays suck so much for you though, I hope you experience a very fine Tuesday sometime soon.
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