Insurance won't pay for Coca Cola

This is the post that will one day undermine my husband's political career.

Tomorrow I am visiting a psychiatrist. I'm sure he's a nice man with a simple haircut, a friendly naugahyde sofa, and boatloads of prescription tablets just itching to be written on. But he scares the crap out of me.

What if he puts me on drugs and they work??? I will kick myself in the shin realizing I should have done this YEARS ago.

Or... what if he says I don't need drugs? Folks, over the past decade, I have exhausted all other resources to try to deal with anger and depression. I would be left with no further options and would be forced to move swiftly into an asylum.

Or... what if we try the drugs and after months of frantic reactions and dosage adjustments I am fried, tired, and beyond petulant?

Either way, this can't end well, right? Wrong... there is the more positive possibility: he might explain a reasonable-sounding treatment and it could work. And I could realize that for whatever reason it just wasn't "meant to be" until now. (Read: something finally broke through my stubbornness.)

Frankly, I'm okay with the fact that I've been stubborn. Trying to recover from long-standing emotional issues introduced me to daily strategies in my mothering; running to combat depression; a fabulous therapist (who PROMISES to monitor me if I start meds and if I begin talking about my alternate life as a paralegal named Sigourney living in Des Moines-- will follow through on negotiating dosage adjustments with the M.D.)

But it's time. Oddly enough, it's homeschooling that is sending me to the shrink. I can't take on this move into "extreme parenting" without all the help I can get. And I know that something just isn't right and it's time to try something new to fix it.

Tonight, I self-medicated with a Coke before dinner. Cheered me right up. I don't drink much caffeine, so when I do it makes a noticeable difference. I remarked to Kevin how I hadn't thought of just trying Coca-Cola, and that it would be cheaper than some prescription medication. His response? "Yes, but insurance wouldn't pay for it."

So off to the psychiatrist I go.







(Note from the editor: There is a chance that all future posts will take on a different "voice". This is the voice of the medicated housewife. There are hundreds of thousands of these voices all over America, but Teri was forever hesitant to join them. When commenting on such posts, feel free to address the author with a different name. "Sigourney" would do nicely. Or Gloria. Peg. Francesca, whatever...)