So the doctor says “You’re bi-polar.” Which I don’t think is the case – but there was a time when being thought of as a more crazy/less culpable bi-polar type was more advantageous than just being seen as a common or garden depressive, so I may have – if not fabricated or embellished – presented details of my first and most theatrical psychological meltdown ready wrapped and stamped with the most desirable diagnosis. I don’t think I’m bipolar, but I let it slide.
“And we wouldn’t normally give someone with bipolar an antidepressant on its own, as there can be serious complications – but I will, but you must come back and see us in a week.”
“What do you do to make yourself happy/” He asks.
“Nothing. There’s nothing I do that makes me happy.”
“Well, you must do something.” He says. “What do you do in your free time?”
“Nothing, really. I just kind of sit – or stand. I’ve got no motivation to do anything else. That’s part of the problem.”
“Well, you must do something. And come back in a week.”
He gives me a prescription for a month’s worth of Citalopram, a sick note for two weeks “Bipolar disorder – current depressive episode”. I thank him for his time.