Under My Helmet by Keith O'Neil

Author:Keith O'Neil
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2017-07-07T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

DIAGNOSIS

“What is actually observed in so-called ‘bipolar children?’ If you read the research reports carefully, they describe broad and persistent emotional dysregulation. Although these children have mood swings, they do not develop manic or hypomanic episodes. They are moody, irritable, oppositional, and likely to misbehave—like all children with disruptive behavior disorders. Their grandiose thinking usually consists of little beyond boastfulness. No evidence from genetics, neurobiology, follow-up studies, or treatment response shows that this syndrome has anything in common with classical bipolarity.”

—Joel Paris,

The Intelligent Clinician’s Guide to the DSM-5

Looking back, I’m glad Jill didn’t listen to me. Her judgment was impeccable, even if I didn’t trust it, or her, or anything.

She could see I was freaking out. But had she listened to me, I probably would have ended up in the psychiatric hospital for an extended stay. Who knows what else?

Throughout my descent into paranoia, Jill had been in regular touch by phone with the therapist that I had so recently started seeing. Now, Jill called her to say that we couldn’t wait even the couple more days to see the scheduled psychiatrist. We needed one now. The therapist got us an appointment with a psychiatrist the next day.

On the drive over to the office, I argued with Jill the whole time. I thought she was going the wrong way, which is funny since I had no idea the address of the office.

I stared out the window at the snow. I was still worried about the email I had written to the Athletic Director at NAU, the tapping of phones and computers, and my mind. Misspellings.

“Hurry up, we’re going to be late!” I said, agitated, to Jill. “We’re going the wrong way! Turn around! We passed the office!”

“Keith, relax. No, we’re not going the wrong way. I know where I’m going. We won’t be late. And quit worrying about the letter. You’re overreacting.”

“Make sure you tell the doctor everything that’s going on with me,” I said, my face pressed against the car window, staring out at white and grey, ground and sky, people and cars and boxy buildings and roads. “Please. You have to tell her everything.”

“I will. Relax.”

We got there on time, of course. We walked through endless snow to get to the office door. We sat in the waiting room, quietly, and I tried to keep from growing too agitated while Jill filled out the paperwork because I was incapable. Everything was scaring me. It was so quiet in the waiting room, empty except for us and the secretary. We kept making eye contact, she and I. She knew exactly why I was there. Yeah, she knew. Why was Jill taking forever to complete the paperwork? “Stop, we can finish it later, let’s just go see the doctor,” I said to her, over and over, like a chant.

Scared as I was generally, I wasn’t scared to see the doctor. I wanted to see her. I wanted help. I wanted to find out what was going on.

Finally, the doctor stepped out of the hallway and I quickly stood.

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