The Diagnosis

It was October of 2011. I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought back to the conversation I had when I called to make the appointment. 

Me: I need to make an appointment.

Desk person: Ok. Do you have an eating disorder? 

Me: Well, I don't know. That's what I'm kind of trying to figure out.

Desk person: Well, what brought you to us?

Me: I take a lot of laxatives. 

I got to the office 5 minutes early. As I walked in, I found myself critiquing every person I saw. That nurse is overweight. The man working at the front desk is big too. I'm the healthiest person in here. I saw a tall, thin, man with round wire glasses walking into a room and I knew it was him. He would be the one analyzing me. I waited for what seemed like a ridiculously long time before he stepped back out and called my name. I walked toward him and he turned around and walked back into his office. I assumed I was supposed to follow him. "You can have a seat in that chair right there," he said, all the while looking down at his notebook. It wasn't a couch, but it was couchesque. I felt very self-conscious. 

"What brings your here today?" His voice reminded me of kermit the frog. 

"Well, I have been taking excessive laxatives for about a year now, and I feel like that's probably not normal."

"Hm, well, about how many do you take?" He wasn't looking at me, just writing and nodding. Very psychiatristish. 

My voice got a little quieter. "About 10-12." It sounded strange coming out of my mouth. He didn't raise his head but he looked at me over the top of his glasses. I'm pretty sure I probably laughed nervously. 

He had a lot of questions for me, several of which made me cry. He never acknowledged it. After an hour of these intense questions ranging from had I been sexually abused to would I like to kill anyone (I answered no to both, just in case you were curious), he was finally finished.  He sat up straight and took his glasses off. 

"Well, um, it looks like you have bulimia nervosa and I also believe you have depression and anxiety disorder as well." 

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. "Okay." My voice cracked. 

"I'm going to recommend you take 2 less laxatives a day this week and 2 less the following, and so on and so forth and that if you can, join our intensive outpatient program 3 nights week. I'm also upping your dosage of zoloft to 100 MG." It was a lot to take in. I felt so exposed. I had just told this man intimate details about my life (some of which I know sounded crazy) and all he could do for me was a diagnosis? I don't know if I expected him to hug me or what, but definitely did not feel right leaving there with a total stranger knowing so much about me and my life. 

On my way home I thought Really? All I have to do is just take more zoloft and less laxatives and show up to some group therapy if I can? Yeah. I can do this. 

I was wrong.