I’ve been through a lot over the last twenty‑five years. I have had more than my fair share of psychologists and psychiatrists. I’ve always hated opening myself up, much like I’m doing here with this blog. I consider this space to be a form of therapy for me, a place to untangle thoughts without a couch or clipboard. I really don’t need psychoanalysis — I never have. I’ve always disliked going to my shrink appointments; it has often felt like a necessary exchange to obtain my scripts. As it stands, I haven’t seen my psychiatrist in over twelve months. I’ve never gone this long without seeing one before. I’ve discovered I can see my GP for the same standard of care, and he doesn’t subject me to a barrage of probing questions. He’s straightforward and efficient, gets things done, and there’s usually just a bit of small talk and a short, friendly conversation. He’s happy to give me a prescription for whatever meds I need, without the psychoanalytic rigmarole. That’s all I ask of a doctor. For far too long I’ve been seeing those other clinicians. I’m just over it. My doctor is encouraging me to return to therapy, and so are my relatives, but that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.
My first psychiatrist was Professor Burrows. I can use his name now, as he died a few years back. I’m fairly sure he wouldn’t have minded, though after I write this I suspect he might have been a little upset. Apparently he slipped in the shower — probably after a few drinks, as he loved his red wine. The “Prof” was in his late seventies and still practicing; many people thought he shouldn’t have been, since he must have been a little bit nuts himself after seeing thousands upon thousands of patients over the long stretch of his career. He was one of the founders of the Melbourne Clinic, a large mental health hospital in Richmond, and he had hundreds of patients — the pharmaceutical companies must have adored him. He had a certain presence about him, that’s for sure.
On my very first admission to the clinic I was sent to ICU — I was pretty sick at the time. I hadn’t met him personally, but I heard about his reputation from other patients. I was given a questionnaire to fill in, one that contained a lot of intrusive and questionable questions, including many about sexuality. Based on that form he took me on as a patient and gave me a diagnosis that still haunts me to this day. We met briefly: a ten-minute introduction, and then he was gone. He was well known as a doctor who didn’t spend long with his patients — five or ten minutes at most — and he had a reputation for overprescribing medications. Another professor I saw later told me that yes, Burrows was very medication-focused, but also insisted he didn’t get diagnoses wrong.
A few blogs ago I wrote an entry about Seroquel. He put me on that medication at an absolutely ridiculous dose — 2,400 mg. The average dose would have been under 100 mg, maybe. I will always remember him telling me I was very sick and that I would never get “better,” but that the medication would definitely help. Channel 7 even did a news segment on him...Today Tonight was a major current affairs program that ran an extensive investigation into his alleged over‑medication of patients. He died shortly thereafter. My parents, who had been instrumental in getting me help in my early twenties, disapproved of him. Because of that, I sought out another professor — whose name I won’t mention — but we simply didn’t click.
This man was distinctly businesslike in his manner. I don’t question his competence. He would sit for a minute or so, simply staring into space as he considered which medications to prescribe. If I interrupted him during those moments he would quietly raise his hand and shush me while he thought. I respected that. He didn’t have the influence that Burrows did, but he was very capable at his work. He took me off all of the high doses of Seroquel and the bucketful of other medications Burrows had put me on, and started me on Clozapine, a last-resort drug for schizophrenia. I ended up taking that for about thirteen years. I saw this doctor for less than a year before finding someone much closer, whom I have been seeing for around fourteen years.
I don't have too much to write about here. He was a kind man and very competent at his job. He came across as friendly but could be firm when he needed to be. I used to frustrate him a lot by skipping my meds and ignoring his advice. By then we had settled into our monthly appointments and I began to genuinely like him as my psychiatrist. To get Clozapine I had to have regular blood tests to monitor my white blood cell count because Clozapine can affect it. That was a real pain in the arse, and I kept up with it for years — literally hundreds of tests over that period. Eventually I decided I wanted to stop Clozapine and he agreed to try Seroquel instead — the same drug I’d been prescribed years earlier, just at a different dose. Around that time I also moved my mental health care over to my GP, who has turned out to be the best doctor I’ve seen. I really like this guy.
I saw a professor for a couple of consultations who I won’t name. He was responsible for the creation of TMS (Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation), a treatment now used around the world. We both knew we weren't going to see each other for much longer — he was there mainly to answer my questions about TMS and to prescribe some medication. There was no psychoanalysis, no deeper exploration of my issues, and then he disappeared.
And that’s where things stand for now. It may be a dull little blog, I admit, but I enjoyed writing it, and its primary purpose is the small measure of therapy it provides me.