What a prescription without psychotherapy did for her… Nothing.  

I remember it vividly. I always will. I was a wreck. A not-so-hot mess. I was devastated and I looked devastated. I had been battling something I didn’t understand for a while at this point of my devastation. Somehow, I made a decision… I was going to seek help. So, as a USF student, I called and made an emergency appointment at their counseling center. I was scheduled with a psychiatrist whose name I don’t care to remember. Her name isn’t worth remembering, not for anything positive.

So, I came to my appointment with my boyfriend at the time. I was scared and ashamed and nervous and, like I said, a not-so-hot mess. I was given intake papers to fill out with all sorts of protruding questions to which my answers made me more upset; I realized then what I already thought: I was a sick, devastated young woman. I now know that these questions were part of a screening for co-occurring disorders. Oh, I was definitely co-occurring. That is for damn sure. I was depressed. I had an eating disorder. I was a full-fledged depressed bulimic.

When the psychiatrist was ready to see me, I was called into her office. I consented to bringing my boyfriend in with me. I’m sure he never really understood. All he knew is that I was devastated. As soon as she started talking to me, I bawled. I cried so hard I could hardly speak. I told her about what I did and what I was doing on a daily basis. I was binging and purging, regularly. I was also ruining my relationship. I’m sure he far from enjoyed any of it.

I told her my binging and purging secrets. My deepest, darkest, thoroughly embarrassing and devastatingly overwhelming secrets. I told him too, as he was sitting right next to me most likely feeling just as overwhelmed. I told her I felt hopeless and sad and that my thoughts were no longer mere thoughts, they were obsessions. These obsessions were running my life; correction, these obsessions were ruining my life. These thoughts were controlling me and no matter what I tried, I could not control them. I had totally lost control and I was admitting it through gasping tears. It seemed like I cried for hours in her office. But, let’s be real. She is a psychiatrist. I probably saw her for a maximum of 20 minutes.

Here was her lofty conclusion: a prescription. An anti-depressant. A pill. A fucking pill.

Let me switch gears here for a second. I don’t regret what I have been through. It has provided me with priceless education and extreme humbleness in my grateful recovery. Without my experiences, I would not be who I am today. For that, I thank my past and my battle and my suffering. I embrace it now. I talk about it. I blog about it. But… I wonder…

I cried and I sobbed tears which were screaming “HELP ME. PLEASE. Help me…”

She gave me a prescription. An anti-depressant. A pill. A fucking pill…

I can’t help but wonder. How different could things have been if she would have done more, suggested more, demanded more? I presented all but verbal suicidal ideations. I was borderline baker act material for Christ’s sake.

But, she just gave me a prescription. An anti-depressant. A pill. A fucking pill……

Taking one or a cocktail of pills was NOT an acceptable or worthy solution. No pill could have “cured” me. And, it didn’t. I needed more than that. I needed education. I needed therapy. I needed help. I sat there begging for help. And, she gave me a pill.

I wonder how it all would have been different. I wonder how so much of my life could have been different. To this day I catch myself endlessly wondering. Not regretting… I don’t regret my experience, as I have said numerous times here on this blog. I don’t regret, I just wonder…

Could it all have been different if I would have been given a recommendation for therapy? A demand that I seek therapy? Or, shoot, even if I had been baker acted? I wonder how different it could have all been… my eating disorder, my health, my relationships–my familial, friendly and sorority relationships and, especially, my intimate relationship.

It couldn’t have been different though. I know that. It wasn’t supposed to be different, not for me anyhow. It was all apart of my divine destiny. I believe that with pure and true conviction. Because it wasn’t any different and never can be any different than the journey that it was, it has defined me. It has fueled my passion and predicted my future. For that, I am more than appreciative and I am more than proud. That is why I am able to do this… to talk, to speak, to share…

I know now, for certain. I know now, not because any empirical data says so but, because I say so, because my experiences have showed me so. Drugs without psychotherapy? No. Hell no. Her lofty conclusion: a prescription. An anti-depressant. A pill. A fucking pill… borderline straight up unethical malpractice. I will NEVER stand for that. It was a disgrace. Her and her prescription were and still are a disgrace to the world of “treatment”. That wasn’t treatment. It was a neglectful travesty.

She gave me a prescription. An anti-depressant. A pill. A fucking pill… What a shame…? Nah, not for me. But, if I can help it, and I will try… that will never happen on my watch. And, the rest of the world, you, you shouldn’t let it happen on yours either.