Diagnosis: Crazy?

Well, I made it through the appointment. And Paul made it home safely from Florida. So the score is -- Us: 2; World: 0.

The diagnosis? Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Social Anxiety. Panic Disorder. The plan? More Klonopin. Even more EffexorXR. CBT, although I'm not pursuing it until I get back from next week's vacation.

Dr. Boyd talked to me (read: analyzed me) for nearly two hours yesterday. I was getting sick of talking about myself. I had already planned the first thing I was going to say to him to break the ice. It went something like this:
Me: So I have this friend who's a psychiatrist in Kentucky. And I was a little nervous about this appointment, so I got in touch with him to ask him what to expect.
Him: And what did he say?
Me: He said the goal of his first appointment is to get his patient to come back for a second appointment, so the first appointment is never too scary.
Him: (polite grin) That's cute.

Okay, so my anecdote didn't go over so well. Eh, I actually never intended for it to be funny OR cute -- I had held on to Tyler's words as my saving grace in the six weeks between the time I made my appointment and the time I saw the doctor. Maybe Tyler was just trying to keep me calm; if so, it worked. Or maybe my doctor just likes to jump in there and get the scary stuff out in the open.

I'm a little reluctant to talk about the diagnosis to my coworkers. I've never been terribly withdrawn around them, but I just don't know if I'm ready to lay my cards out yet on this one.