I can't look...

I haven't been able to post anything in a while.  It's not because I am feeling awful or that I am lying in bed all day unable to move.  Quite the contrary.  I am doing well.  I am functioning.  But the truth is that I am terrified. 

The anxiety is starting to creep in again.  And I am starting to worry.  I am worried that I am not going to be okay.  I am worried that I am not actually getting better.  I find myself wanting to sleep.  I want to be left alone.  I don't feel like going to work.  And I feel like if I give in to these things, if I allow myself to feel bad then the bad feelings will come flooding through and engulf me and I will again drown in the undercurrent.

I have contemplated sitting down for 20 minutes and just posting SOMETHING in my motherhood blog.  But nothing seems worthy of note.  Lila is behaving and I am not getting angry at her so much.  I haven't posted in weeks and I want to pretend like I just have nothing to say but the truth is that I am just afraid.  If I stop for a few minutes and put it down, if I acknowledge that I am still frustrated and annoyed and feel like pulling my hair out, I will be looking right into the face of my demons and looking at it will somehow allow it to take over.

I feel that way now, writing this.  Like I have been doing a great job of running and dodging and staying ahead of it.  And now I have stopped to see if it is still there behind me.  You know what happens when characters in movies stop and think their pursuer isn't there anymore, right? 

Journal Entry 2

Support groups are strange. 

I have been attending a support group for Depression and Bipolar disorder for a few weeks now and there are a few things that I would like to discuss.

First off, I generally hate support groups.  When I was younger (because I was kind of a bizarre teenager), I used to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.  I didn't have a drinking problem.  I was just fascinated by the idea of sitting down in a big group of strangers and talking about feelings and unloading.  I also tried Al-Anon and some other groups but AA was really my preferred group.  I went to a group for "young people" which included folks from the ages of 14 to about 30.  I credit my attendance at these meetings with the fact that although alcoholism is practically an inevitablilty in my family, I rarely (hardly ever) drink, and when I do I know when I have had too much.

The thing about these meetings was that after a couple of years of attending them, I started to realize that they were really sad, miserable places to be.  For every person who shared a story of overcoming their problems and leading a much more fulfilling life, 10 people told of how they were struggling and sad and lost everything.  They usually ended with a somewhat sarcastic "but I am sober" and a shrug.

Then, 15 years later, I had something of a breakdown and realized that I was willing to do ANYTHING to climb out of the depths of misery that I was living in.  I was referred to a support group and told that I might find some "comfort" there.  I cringed. The group meets on Tuesday nights and since I was desperate I decided I would go. 

The first week I skipped out, making the excuse that I had just come home from the hospital and needed to rest.  The truth was that I imagined the group as a gathering of the TRULY CRAZY where the wacky old cat lady and the creepy decrepit widow and maybe 3 other nutjobs would mourn the loss of their respective youths and would commiserate with eachother for the entire hour and a half, stopping only to sip from their cold fake-creamered decaffinated coffees.

The following Tuesday came and Ben asked me if I was going to go.  I SAID yes, but my eyes apparently screamed "NOOOO!  DON'T MAKE ME GO!"  He offered to come along, "you know...for support or whatever."  I knew then that I had no good excuse not to go.  I couldn't fall back on the whole "There are creepy people there," excuse because as a sane person he would point out that I had never been there and so I couldn't really predict what the group would be like.  I also couldn't just squirm out of it at the last minute because we would have to make arrangements for someone to watch Lila while we went. 

We showed up and I was instantly comfortable. These were not lunatics or homeless people.  Most of them did not have the somber, downcast look of the mentally ill.  These were people like me.  Some of them even smiled and laughed as they chatted together before the meeting started.  It was a large group and there were several stories of being diagnosed, medicated, therapied (my own created word), and recovered.  Some of them shared advice about doctors or programs or just simple tips for getting through the worst days.  Overall, I knew I had found something that would give me a much-needed couple of hours of relating and socializing without feeling like I was oversharing for talking about the dark that has weighted on me constantly for much of my life.

 

An observation from many years of experience

Things are more difficult for me than other people.

This is not the depression talking or some kind of strange paranoia. 

This is based on a lifetime of seeing what most people see as simple, routine situations becoming these extremely stress-filled, complicated ordeals for me, at seemingly (and THAT word is how I know this isn't the depression talking - because I am willing to cede that I am doing something wrong) no fault of my own.

Take this whole "getting a therapist" thing. 

For most people, if you are referred to a therapist (or doctor or basically any organization for that matter because my terrible luck doesn't discriminate), you do the paperwork, and go through the hoops and within a few days, you have your appointment and therapy commences. 

For me that simple outcome is just a fantasy.  Because although I was TOLD that I was all set and someone would call me at the end of the week, it has now been almost THREE weeks.  I have called.  The first time I called, I was told someone would take care of it.  The second, I was given the voice mail of a person I was told could help me.  I actually left a few messages for her and never heard back so I called again and was given an "Office Manager." She told me she would speak to the person IN CHARGE of assigning me to a therapist and call me back by the end of the day.  When I didn't hear from her by 4:45, I called back and got a voice mail.  Still I am not in therapy.

But this isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened to me.  I cannot tell you how many important medical forms have been "misplaced" or conversations have been forgotten. 

When I was pregnant, my OB ordered blood work to test for spinal abnormalities.  As a hypochondriac, I pleaded with him to call me whether the tests were positive or negative and stressed that (because I am crazy) I was REALLY worried about this.  I never heard back from him, and when I called, the nurse looked at my chart and had no idea what I was talking about.  I was freaking out for weeks until my next appointment.  When I finally got in to see the doctor and asked what the results of the blood work were, he looked at me with a blank stare.  He had NO IDEA what I was talking about.  He looked at my chart and shrugged, saying that he doesn't remember ordering the test.  "I HAD BLOOD DRAWN!" I said.  "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH IT?"  Did they feed it to the vampires?  Use if for alien research?  Where the fuck was the TWO VIALS of blood they sucked out of my arm?  He didn't have the slightest recollection of my original panic attack or my request.  I obviously changed doctors immediately.  But when my new doc ordered an additional ultrasound to check on the spine, my insurance refused to pay it claiming it was "experimental or not a necessity" even though the doc personally wrote a letter explaining the situation with my former OB.  I ended up having to pay for it.

This kind of stuff happens to me all the time.  I have strange issues with bank accounts, problems with payments never being received, so-called "professionals" who totally blew me off, and electronics that just flat-out hate me.  We used to have a DVD player that WOULD NOT WORK when I tried to use it.  I would put a disc in and it would tell me there was no disc.  I would eject, make sure I was placing it right, clean the disc, turn it off then on again, check to see if it was upside down, and it would still not work.  Ben would go over, hit "eject" then put the disc back in and it would work with no problem.  He didn't blow into it or anything.  He just wasn't me. 

On several occasions I have attempted to review my behaviors to ascertain in what ways I contributed to this chaos.  I have had people listen to the messages I am leaving to make sure I am not coming off as an asshole or anything.  I have kept notes and records of conversations because I thought maybe I was getting confused about what was actually being said.  I repeat things back to people like, "so you will call me by the end of today then?" and they seem to agree with what I think I am hearing.  I just can't put my finger on anything that I am doing wrong. It appears that I just have really shitty luck. 

Journal Entry

I am feeling less optimistic than I was a few days ago. 

I have yet to hear back from the counseling center so I STILL don't have an appointment with a therapist or doctor.  I desperately want to start this process because I feel like I am losing momentum every day.  It may just be hormonal.  Or it may be that I succumbed to the placebo effect with the adjusted meds and that is now wearing off.  Or I may just be having a couple of bad days.

I don't know.  I am worried but trying to talk positively to myself and tell myself that it's just a little bump and that a few bad days does not foretell my falling back into the deep. 

I have a support group meeting to attend tonight.  Hopefully I will get some advice and inspiration from the people I meet there.

Today I focus on what is right in my life:

My daughter started preschool yesterday (her second year) and is excited and hungry to learn new things.

I have a partner who provides for us all and tries his best to love us and make us laugh.

I have a job that I am good at and a new project that is challenging and satisfying.

I am healthy and mobile and functioning.

Most importantly, I have people who read my blog and validate my observations and make me feel a little less crazy.

It's not so dark

I feel the darkness abating. 

I have been out of the hospital for two weeks now and I am settled back into my life.  With the addition of the Trazodone for sleep (and to help with the anxiety that jolts me awake in the morning like a fire alarm) and the low dose of Wellbutrin, I think I have stopped my free-fall and am now able to feel around and look for a way to climb back up. 

I am not as exhausted (although I am still pretty tired) and I actually want to be out and around people a little bit. 

This last week I went to a support group for Depression and Bipolar Disorder, which I totally expected to be filled with the truly insane and desperate.  Normally, this is the kind of thing I would avoid like the plague, but part of my treatment plan at the hospital was that I join SOME kind of group to have a reason to get the hell out of the house.  So I figured that this would kill 2 birds with 1 stone, both the group thing and the support/talking thing.  I found that there were some good, normal people there who struggle with many of the same things I do and I am actually looking forward to going back next week. 

I had a nasty cold this week and usually, with my insane fatigue, I never would have made it to work but I went and actually am enjoying a project that I have been given, to the point that I am OFFERING to work extra hours. 

Ben still seems disappointed.  I think he thought that I would come home and be all over him and loving and thrilled to be around him all the time, but the truth is that day to day life makes that difficult.  I still feel guilty all the time for "making him" put up with me and this illness but I am noticing now when I feel that way and trying to talk about it rather than stuff the feelings into that darkness. 

I am enjoying Lila a little more, although I am still feeling pretty short with her.  She IS a pain in the ass sometimes and I can honestly say that it's ok.  She's 4.  Just knowing that I haven't already damaged her with my craziness is a huge burden off of me and I can move forward now.

I am still waiting to hear from the counseling center.  I was told that it may take 2 weeks, but I am going to give them a call on Monday and see what the status of my...whatever...is. 

So all in all, I think I am doing ok, and certainly the crisis has been averted.

They really do resemble the mentally ill.

Originally Posted by Selena@BecauseMotherhoodSucks.com

Sunday, August 28, 2011

I have heard it joked that having a small child in your house is like living with a crazy person. And I am here to tell you that I can confirm that it's absolutely true, although to be more accurate, it is like living with a ward full of psychiatric patients. I know because I just left there.

As many of you know, my depression has been excruciating lately and I was not finding a lot of help from the professionals that I contacted. Last Saturday, I had finally had enough and I checked myself into the psych ward at the hospital (you were wondering where I was, weren't you?).

I waited until Lila was out and about with her dad for the day and then called my mother and begged her to take me to the hospital (actually, she was more than willing and thought it was the best idea). I didn't think they were actually going to check me in because I was not threatening to kill myself or anyone else (for a change). When the doctor told me she wanted me to check in voluntarily or else she was going to check me in involuntarily with a required 72 hour stay, I signed the papers all the while crying and trying to convince the doctor that my child would never survive without me.

Even in a state that can best be described as desperately useless, I was more worried about my kid than I was about myself. I felt guilty for leaving her - for NEEDING to leave her. I felt like I had been so removed and uninvolved for weeks now, and I was finally doing the inevitable. I was leaving her. My mother convinced me that she was in very able hands (her Dad is a fantastic father) and that this would truly be better than letting her see me in such a state of utter breakdown. I knew she was right-in my head. But my heart told me that I was a deserter.

The ward was a hospital ward with a long hallway with patients' rooms on one side and offices and other useful rooms on the other. In the middle of the hall was a large open room with a TV and several tables in it. The TV was always at full volume and the fluorescent lights and linoleum floors make the room harsh and uncomfortable.

But it isn't the decor that I think was the important part of this story. It was the people. They don't separate the truly insane or disruptive patients from those who are depressed or anxious and the crazies ran the place.

The first person I saw was a guy with a thick black beard and shaved head who just stood in the hall smiling to himself. He just stood there. Didn't look up. Then he tentatively took half a step before smiling to himself again. I was instantly afraid. He was totally in his own head and I realized then that I was here with truly ill people.

There was also a guy who constantly paced the length of the hallway all day and half the night. When he sat down, he would try to talk to you or concentrate on something to no avail. He would get frustrated and jump up to walk again.

There was a woman who barked. She mostly barked but also liked to repeat everything that people said when she was in the mood. The first night I was there, they were watching some show on Telemundo that was like America's Got Talent but only showcased children. At one point, a dance team came out enthusiastically gyrating to annoying techno music. She heard the music, jumped up and started imitating the dance moves. Here was a 50+ woman who barked doing some really athletic dance moves. I was pretty sure she was going to hurt herself.

There was a guy who was essentially catatonic in a wheelchair who would piss himself and then come to life fighting the nurses who tried to change his pants.

There was a girl who confined herself to her room most of the time except that several times a day (and often in the middle of the night) would come out into the hall screeching, howling and hooting as if she were at some fantastic dance party that only she could see.

But my favorite memory will always be of The Yeller. The Yeller was a 70 year old man who came in complaining and bitching but in completely nonsensical sentences. He literally yelled utter nonsense for 4 entire days, quieting down for 3 hours here and there but mostly going on non-stop. He just could not shut the fuck up. He yelled all kinds of interesting gems and I was convinced that if I could just transcribe it, there would be some sense to be made of it. But I doubt it. He would walk up to you for no reason looking like you somehow offended him and he'd point at you and say something like (and I quote) "You can tell me abracadabra and put it in the dryer. But you have to get the user's manual that's in the refrigerator because the sponges need a bath." After 4 days of him yelling day and night, I decided that ready or not, I needed to go home.

Coming home was really strange for me. My house looked weird. Lila looked like she had grown up, and I just felt completely out of sorts. I knew that the relief I felt from the excessive sadness and anxiety was mostly due to being away from my real life and I knew that it was going to be hard to disappoint Lila, who thought that since I was coming back from the hospital that I was going to be all better. I am not. 

But all that being said, I found out that I have an incredibly well-behaved and well-adjusted child. Lila missed me and asked about me often but only cried about it once, at bedtime on the second night I was gone. In fact, I would often call her at my mother's house during the day and on more than one occasion when my mother asked if she wanted to talk to me she shrugged and said, "not right now, I'm playing." When I told my doctor about this, she asked if that hurt my feelings and I had to be honest: I was completely relieved that she was secure in the idea that I was coming back soon. She wasn't traumatized by my absence and that freed me up to do some of the work I needed to do to get myself in good enough shape to get out of there.

Like any stay in the hospital, coming home did not mean I was "cured". It only meant that the crisis had been averted and that the hard work of really getting better was beginning. Before I left, they made me a prompt appointment with a therapist and a psychiatrist, which boggled my mind since every shrink I had called in the last month told me they were either not taking new patients or wouldn't be able to see me until October. I have new meds (which I already think need adjusting) and I am still having a ton of anxiety and sadness.

But now I know that there is help out there. And I have something that I didn't have when I went in there. Hope.

Part Three

Originally Posted by Selena@becausemotherhoodsucks.com

Thursday, August 18, 2011

How the hell do I get through this day? Luckily my mother took my kid so that she doesn't have to see me like this. But this is like day 5 of this awfulness and no amount of medication seems to be helping the feeling of fear and desperation that nothing is ever going to make me feel better. I have no where to go today. I have no money. I need a shower but it just seems like so much effort. I just feel like I am going to jump out of my skin. All of it seems like it's just too fucking much. And the worst part about it is that it makes NO FUCKING SENSE!

I see all these people around me with real problems and sick children and unemployed and drug addicted and then I see myself. I have none of that. I am truly blessed in my life and yet I sit here feeling like the sky is falling and I am being held down and not allowed to make a run for it. Why can't I just talk myself out of this? Why doesn't my brain work? Why do I feel like I am going crazy and that I am just falling short of getting the help that I need?

I keep starting to do something but then realize I have nothing to do. And I can't let my kid see me like this. I just can't. She knows that something is wrong. She knows that "Mommy's Sick" but she has no idea that mommy is losing her mind and is afraid she will never be back to the way she was before...not that I was ever so great anyway.

I can't sleep. The Anxiety makes sure that I don't have that method of escape. I can't eat. I can't focus. And yet simple things like taking a short walk tire me out to the point where I feel like I am going to drop.

I am not a praying woman. I do not subscribe to any faith. But several times in the last week I have dropped to my knees and begged for something to grant me some relief from this torment and no one seems to answer. I am scared beyond belief.

Ghost Mother Part 2...

(Or "How the Mental Health System Makes People Insane")

Originally published by Selena@Becausemotherhoodsucks.com

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Depression has me in a death grip right now. It's serious. The anxiety is back with it and I feel like I am literally going insane. I can't stop the terrible thoughts that something is going to happen to me. Or that something awful IS happening to me. I feel like I am going to die.

Yesterday I went to the emergency room demanding to see someone right away. The psych ward has an emergency unit and I went there to wait. And wait. I waited for 9 hours. Granted during that time I was seen by a nurse for a psysical evaluation and I talked to a counselor to determine my mental condition but I did all that in the first two hours. It was seven more hours before I could see the doctor.

Understand that this is desperation talking. I would NEVER take just a simple sadness to the hospital because I live with sadness every day. This was different. This was extreme hopelessness mixed with agitated anxiety and I was willing to do anything to make it stop, even sit in a psych ward for 9 hours. If they wanted to check me in and put me with all the crazies I would do that. ANYTHING to make this stop. This is the kind of feeling that makes someone desperate for a way out. It just so happened that I am too much of a wuss to think about suicide. I am too afraid to die.

So I waited 9 hours and when I was finally called in to see the doctor I was met with a little white woman in a white shirt with white hair and glasses. She sat down and started asking me simple questions in such a way that I wanted to ask her if she was mad at me. I was afraid of her in a way. Or maybe intimidated is a better word. She had the power to find something to fix me or else send me away or perhaps even lock me up, although I felt it was unlikely because I was not a suicide threat.

I tried to answer her questions simply, as she kept saying "give me the short version" and so I couldn't tell her how I woke up with a jolt in the morning and felt like I was insane for most of the day. She didn't give me the chance to talk about how for the last few days I couldn't even bring myself to turn on my computer because it seems like too much work and I would rather just take one of my uncle's Xanax and sleep (I have done that 3 nights in a row, avoiding doing bathtime and bedtime with Lila because it feels like too much). I didn't get to tell her about how the news makes me cry and how my daughter keeps asking me when I am going to get better.

She criticized the place where I finally found a therapist without a 6 month waiting list. She criticized me for asking my family practitioner for psychoactive medications and said that it's probably her fault that I am like this. And although I tried to explain that I called 4 different places to see if I could see a Psychiatrist and was told all four times "we're not taking new patients". She literally rolled her eyes at this. LITERALLY. I fucking hated this woman.

She told me she was "recommending" that I increase my dosage of Cymbalta and we'll see if that helps. I put that in quotes because she then told me that she won't "tell me" that's what I should do, she will only "make a recommendation". I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK TO DO TO FIX THIS SHIT LADY!!!!. But of course I didn't quite say that.

When I asked about the anxiety she just smiled this terrible sort of smile and said, "you can't tell me this is your first go round with anxiety," and she left it at that. I was shocked and couldn't say anything at all. What would you have said? Was she implying that I was one of those people just fishing for good drugs even though we talked about the fact that I don't even fucking drink? I started crying at that point out of sheer frustration, and told her that I was quite honestly scared. This did nothing to soften her. She told me that I had nothing to be scared of, and that I wasn't crazy, pointing to the woman in the hallway who was swearing at everyone who walked by her. She didn't even bother to add anything reassuring, like "I think you'll be fine".

I cried and cried and cried. It was by far the worst day of my life. I woke up today ready to go check myself into another hospital and instead went back to my regular family doctor, who sat me down and told me she would give me something for the anxiety. She told me that the recommendation to increase the dosage of my current medication would likely give me at least SOME relief and that I am not broken and that she would do anything she could to help, just to let her know what she could do.

I am trying SO FUCKING HARD not to give up completely. I am tempted to check in somewhere but this city is really lacking in decent mental health facilities. What I know is that I cannot go on like this. Something has to give. I am doing all the things that they tell you to do. I am seeking help. I am basically BEGGING someone to help me. And I am lucky that I was recently approved for Medicaid because two months ago, I didn't have insurance at all. Imagine what I would be up against then!

As a side note, I called for my "emergency follow up" and the lady gave me the earliest appointment available...OCTOBER 19!!! What the hell do they expect people to do? Seriously. What the fuck am I supposed to do? How am I going to get myself through this?

The Ghost Mother

Originally Posted by Selena@BecauseMotherhoodSucks

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

 

Sometimes I feel like a ghost.

I have been struggling with my depression again and as always it threatens to asphyxiate me and drown out all the good that lives in me.

But no one ever tells you that when you are a mother and you have depression, you do not get to suffer alone. The thing you love, the thing that keeps you from being lost completely in the abyss suffers too.

Having a mother with depression is like being forced to be psychic. You never know what is going to make her angry. You never know who is going to greet you when you come home. You never know if there is going to be someone to take care of you or if you are going to have to figure it out yourself again. This was MY experience. My mother was depressed.

And against everything I swore I would never be as a parent, this is slowly becoming my daughter's experience as well.

I feel like I am depriving her. Her mother doesn't want to play. She doesn't want to go anywhere. She can't muster the energy many days to leave the house. And when she does, the rest of the day is shot, because she only has so much patience and will to burn. She loses her cool when the kid is just being a kid.

And the more I feel guilty about being sick, the more I want to withdraw - to not subject her to me. And this makes me more guilty and feeds into this twisted circle that is quickly becoming something of a spiral or a whirlpool dragging me down to God knows where.

The meds have not been helping so I keep going back begging for some kind of help. "We'll find something that works for you," the doctor said to me today. But it's hard to watch what I am doing to my kid while the battle wears on.

And then there's the fear. The fear and worry that I am scarring her for life. That I am unable to teach her some essential survival skills that will keep her from succumbing to the same pitfalls and setbacks the threw me into the pit and left me there for dead. I don't want her to have to ever feel this way. But if history is any indication, my fears will be realized no matter how hard I work to prevent them.

It is hard to hold out hope for a turnaround. It is hard when most of the medications and therapies have just led to brief remissions and when substantial lifestyle changes have been sidetracked by this unbearable lethargy. But I have no choice. I have my little girl to look after. She keeps me from being able to give up. I HAVE to get out of bed. I HAVE to face the day. I HAVE to make dinner even when it hurts and is overwhelming just to stand at the stove and stir a pot. Even when I suck to be around. She still needs me.

I just hope she will forgive me for all the lost time.

Because I Need to Vent

Originally posted by Selena@BecauseMotherhoodSucks.com

July 27, 2011

Being poor sucks. Seriously. Being poor but not poor enough to qualify for State health insurance is even worse. Because it forces you to have to do stupid things for medical care.

I have been going to a community health center.

When I first went there I was happy I found it because I was really sick and I wouldn't have to mortgage my kid to get some antibiotics. Granted, it is in a terrifying part of town and filled with people who smell bad and look worse, but it was cheap and these were actual real doctors who were willing to see me without an up front cash payment.

But as time has gone on, the gratefulness has worn off. I am pretty sure they have no idea what they are doing and I am not getting anything close to decent health care.

I have Major Depression. I have been struggling with it on and off for most of my life and in the last 6 months I have been especially dragged down and lethargic. I am medicated but it isn't working and the waiting list for the Psychiatrist at the health center is (literally) 10 months.

I have been getting my prescription needs met by a very nice but extremely young (he may not be legal) Physicians Assistant that we will call Aaron.

My doctor.

Aaron is terrified of me because he knows absolutely NOTHING about psychiatric medications and I have a long and tumultuous history with them. When I first went to him, I was having withdrawals because I had run out of my meds while waiting for my mail-order supply to come from Canada (yes, it's legal). And he was happy to write me the script.

The next time he saw me, I told him that the drugs that I was on weren't working and he upped the dosage. The next time he added something else to the mix. He has tested me for Thyroid problems and Anemia and finally today I told him that he has to prescribe me something else because this shit is NOT working for me and I can't be lethargic and miserable all day every day because I am going to lose my family and my job like this.

So, he nervously agrees to put me BACK on a high dosage of Prozac until I can get into the Psychiatry department where I only have about 4 months left to wait.

But here's the thing. He wants me OFF the shit I am on entirely before I start the minimal dosage of the Prozac. I told him this is a huge mistake. I told him that I will not survive the transition if my previous experience of going off the meds is any indication of the potential for problems. He told me that he has to be cautious and that there is no other way. I told him that as someone who has been through the transition, I know that this is dangerous and I will likely end up at the very least traumatizing my kid and losing my job and in the most likely situation will end up hospitalized. He told me to come back in 6 weeks and to call him if I have any problems, which is easier said than done because when you call there you essentially just get transferred around until you end up on a line that rings forever.

When I went to make my 6 week follow up appointment, the girl gives me a date exactly 2 months from today. I say to her, "that's more than 6 weeks," to which she replies, "well it's two months...and there's 3 weeks in a month.".

"No, there's 4 weeks in a month, and July and August are long months," I reply.

She gives me this look like she is going to slap me and says, "there's 3 weeks in a month...give or take."

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? So I shut up and take my appointment card knowing that I am getting bad advice from my doctor and that the staff is stupid and incompetent.

I don't feel good about this at all. What the fuck am I supposed to do?

Then there's this: