There's a Tiger in the Room

by Kristie Kelso Rothstein

There's a tiger in the room
invisible to everyone but me
My mind spins around the danger
surrounding me
as the tiger crouches in the corner
I crouch down low in my seat,
trying as hard as possible to escape this enemy
waiting for it to get tired of this game
and leave.

So, you are in the waiting room of the doctor's office having driven in at 10:00 a.m. at 80 miles per hour with shaky hands and a rapidly beating heart. You try and sit calmly so that the elderly woman across from you (who is obviously crazier than you) doesn't notice that your heart is about to jump out of your chest and fall at her feet.

You hug your arms around your body to stop the shaking. You consider walking around, perhaps a drink of water, maybe a magazine. The magazines are thrown on the table, the obsessive part of your mind wants to arrange them neatly but you stop yourself. You glance across the titles; Child, Psychology Today, and *ta da* (drum roll please!) Schizophrenia Digest. You know you must be in the wrong place. Your worst fears circle around and around. This doctor will tell you there is nothing wrong with you. This doctor will tell you you are just an overloaded and exhausted working mother. This doctor will tell you that you are indeed schizophrenic, bi-polar, chronic depressive, obsessive-compulsive with a slight hint of ADHD. Fortunately for you, more than likely the doctor won't tell you you're dying.

The doctor comes out, behind a neanderthalish patient who looks like the Unabomber (who is definitely crazier than you). You are most certainly in the wrong place. She cheerfully moves toward you and reaches for your shaky hand. You grab onto her, dropping your tightly clutched purse to the ground. You shake her hand trying to be professional and move toward her office trying to make all the right turns (and almost failing). She closes the door behind you shutting you off from the outside world for an hour, leaving the tiger behind.

The good news is that Dr. #1 was on the right track. We are moving on with the Effexor (anti-depressant #1) and waiting on the next month to "let the healing begin." Hopefully it will kick into gear sometime soon. I am beginning to get impatient. She has classified me as being in a "major depressive episode," apparently the third in a series of which I was never aware. I suppose I thought feeling like crap at times was just normal, but I was wrong. Maybe grief has become such a constant in my life that I have just accepted it. Who knows. Maybe after a good six months of therapy I'll figure this out. Dr. #2, the "shrink," was helpful in some ways. I think I annoyed her a bit. She seemed thrown off by my own self-analysis and didn't have time for my wit the sarcastic humor that keeps me going these days. She asked many questions which were difficult to answer such as, "Were you depressed as a child?" Considering that life is completely relative to one's own culture and being and that what others see as "depressed" we may consider "normal" ... I don't know. She didn't seem to accept that answer.

Did I play as a child? Did I laugh? Of course. Did I sit thoughtfully and make up poems and stories in my head? Yes. Was I sensitive and did I cry at the drop of a hat? Yes. Was I depressed? I don't know. Am I depressed now? I don't know. What does all of this mean anyway?

The shocking news is that I have to be on this medication for at least a year. Dr. #1 never made this clear. Oops. Then she recommended a three to five year minimum to "get me through the rough times ahead." Also the dosage will be upped to the maximum. That's the dosage for the REALLY depressed folks. Wow. How did I get from wondering if my hormones were off to severely depressed in four simple weeks? Oh well. You take it as it comes. The joy lies in the fact that I have some time off from work, maybe the rest of this semester even. I have idle time which I have no idea what to do with.

On to Dr. # 3.

The compassionate psychologist who accepts and appreciates my sarcasm and wit and we have a good laugh together. She is great. I want to hug her so badly at the end but her professionalism keeps us within the "proper" patient/doctor boundaries. I see myself in her if I would have continued the psychology route in college. She minored in English and appreciates my metaphorical descriptions and points of view. I like this woman. I see her again in one week and will surely arrive in her office with no shaking hands or nervous heart.

I am on the road to some sort of recovery. I will make it out of this "hole" of sorts. Funny to be in a hole that you never remember falling into. The slipping down happens so gradually that you don't notice until the darkness overwhelms you and you can't find a candle or light to guide your way. I am going to climb out of this space. I will hopefully escape stronger, brighter and more willing to take risks in this life. My friends are holding the weight of my body and hoisting me out. I couldn't do this without them.

The Author

Kristie Kelso Rothstein, 34, lives and works on the central coast of California as a jewelry designer, mixed media artist and freelance writer. She is the mother of two beautiful and artistic daughters and struggles daily to remain sane in this crazy world.