Research Lady (hereafter known as RL) had the day off today, so I got to see Research Dude. "Dude" because he looked like a surfer dude and seemed more nervous about asking me the questions than I was about answering them. Or maybe he wasn't so much nervous as putting on a great display of what spending 4 years of undergrad and 2 of grad school (maybe more?) in a lab with other science nerds does to your social skills. But that is besides the point.
I found out today that I am a white 1inch 3-ring binder. There is a tab for each week of this part of the study. Behind each tab is where all my answers to the questions week to week will be recorded. Research dude said that if I get through this part of the study I get a bigger binder. Lord knows how big my binder will be if I make it to part 3 of the study.
But Research Dude (RD) assured me that they use recycled paper, so I guess I don't have to worry about the impact this study has on my carbon footprint just yet. ;-)I got to find all this out because apparently I answer questions more quickly than RD expected, and had a bunch of time to kill before the Nurse was ready to see me. So we chatted akwardly for bit, he sent me out to the waiting room again, and then brought me back in to chat awkardly for another 5 minutes before the nurse finally came and got me.
Apparently the Lexapro isn't helping as much (or at all really) as they like to see in the first week, so Nurse asked me if I wanted to go from my 10mg to a higher dose. However, she recommended since I am experiencing nausea and exhaustaion (a side effect they call "sedation" lol...both of which should taper off the longer I take the drug) to wait a week and then raise the dose so as to prevent having further side effects. So that is what I am doing.
The worst part of the whole process is coming into the clinic and leaving. It's located in one part of a big medical complex, and the suite it is in is clearly marked "psyciatric services" right across from the reception desk for the "breast health" center. So the ladies who see breast cancer patients all day watch me walk into the "psychiatric services" suite, as do any business suited guys who happen to be walking down the hall from some other part of the building. So I enter the waiting room, which may or may not have a variety of people in various stages of distress in it. I tell the receptionist I'm here for a research appointment, whe validates my parking ticket, and I am sent back to a different, more tiny, waiting room. Last week I got to hear a girl have a half whispered breakdown while her mother tried to comfort her.
After the whole process is over I take the walk to the patient exit. All of the questions I have been asked replay in my mind, and I start thinking about why I am there, why I'm depressed, and what it has done to me. Part of me feels like I don't belong here, with the sobbing and the sedated, while another part of me knows all too well that I need this. It starts welling up, and I get to fight with it all the way home to regain some kind of "normal."
God, I hope that part gets better.
weight: 193
depression symptoms: feeling "blue", lack of motivation, trouble concentrating
possible medication side effects: nausea, sedation
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