I was sitting in the sunlit, Spanish-style waiting room of my new psychiatrist, hopeful. The building seemed so much lovelier than the on-staff psychiatrist at school's gray, dreary, windowless office  and I was relaxed because this was the first mental health professional I had met who actually understood aesthetics.

When I was allowed in the office, I was greeted with the most professional interview I have ever been given. The psychiatrist did not seem too concerned  with my personal life (even though I've had a pretty rough year) and still managed to scribble pages about me. 

"How are you sleeping?"

"I'm not."

Another loud scribble and a prescription for a sleep aid was given. I felt like a high schooler again, when you're over at a friends house and their parents are okay with you drinking. My GP did not want me on a sleep aid but I pocketed the prescription without a word.

I was put on Lexapro. My psychiatrist went on to describe how wonderful it was, how a lot of their patients used it, and it had lessened their symptoms dramatically. The cynic in me churned when they mentioned how many of their patients used this medication but I ignored it. I was miserable and I needed a miracle, this apparently was one. 

So I took it. It wasn't bad, it wasn't good, and it wasn't the miracle I was hoping for. I had a strange feeling like something was missing but I wasn't exactly sure what it was. 

The second time I saw my psychiatrist they wanted to up my dosage. I wasn't really paying attention, all I could notice was their Lexapro clip board, Lexapro pen, and Lexapro tissue box. I began to imagine the office with Lexapro wallpaper...The cynic inside me was letting of sirens this time and I didn't silence it. My psychiatrist started rambling on about serotonin. I mentioned something going on with my life.

"You need a therapist for that."

They said they'd assign me with one. At that moment I realized  that I was in serious need of therapy but I began to question my need for this psychiatrist. So I decided to google my psychiatrist. I was hoping to find some great article about how wonderful my psychiatrist was. I found an article. Apparently my doctor was involved in some surgical implant that treated depression, while I'm glad the patient found relief from this, I found the entire thing disturbing.

Two months after I started on Lexapro, I stopped. I canceled my appointment. I hid the bottle in a sugar bowl, just in case. There was no "just in case" and it was flushed down the toilet a month after that. I started therapy with someone I "assigned"myself. Occasionally the topic of medication comes up but I always shoot it down. It took a lot for me to walk in to a psychiatrist's office as I've grown up seeing a lot frightening negatives from their medication and I'm not sure I'm up for it at this moment.