I went to a psychiatrist today.
Three weeks ago, my parents, unfortunately, witnessed my sudden emotional outburst. Not only that, but they saw me attempting to jump off the roof of our house. I left home the next day for Dumaguete for my mid-year class, pretending nothing of the sort happened. I remember my mother telling me before I left that she wanted me to see a psychiatrist. I brushed off the idea because I didn’t think she would push through it. But she’s serious.
Today, she took me to a hospital in the city where I met a psychiatrist. It’s not what I expected it to be like how I see it in the movies. It was difficult at first to tell the psychiatrist what I’ve been through, especially because my mother was in the room. But when the doctor kindly asked her to leave the room, I got around to say a few things. I think I cried the whole time I was in there. I just told her a summary of what I have been feeling. I’m going back there this Saturday, and after that, I’d have to see her every week on Saturdays since I don’t have a class on those days. She says she wants to talk to me every week since I told her I’ve attempted suicide more than once and she’s scared for me. She’s given me these anti-depressants that look rather depressing. Ironic. One, I need to take in the morning and evening because of my mood swings. Another, to help me get a good sleep since I’ve been finding falling sleep quite difficult these days.
Funny, I find it strange that I finally went to a doctor and that I’m taking anti-depressants now. I’m beginning to question who I am. Does this affect who I am? I’ll find out the answer to this soon.