New Psychiatrist (again)

Uncertainty is for certain. What never changes is that things change. Same questions asked of me, again, this time with a new voice. Suppose the last notes were untrustworthy. Suppose the last notes were private. This Doctor needs to hear for herself rather than trust the several before her who asked the same exact, the same exact questions.
Not very optimistic that this was the last initial interview. Want to review soon, you know, just in case things are seen differently, this time around. Like, am I still OCD? Or Manically depressed or just obsessed with not knowing the proper diagnosis, that seemingly changes as much as a mood of a bipolar friend. Wait, I have no friends, that was an allusion to the illusion that people actually care for more than themselves.
Next month, another call to see if the formal medication, formerly prescribed, now described to me again, as a solution. This time the bottles will have the same name, new dose, with a new name. Wait, does it matter who prescribed the medication initially? Were they wrong? Must accept the diagnosis is the mantra of more than a few. What is it this time?
The trail of prescribed labels tells a fable of trouble in the past. They also gather in the morning and speak of stable days that pass away without much thought. I can not remember when last night ended, but the bottle is open. I tried to sleep, so I think. The bottle is open. So I tried to stop thinking, or so I think.
Better to think in weeks and not days. Better to eat something, anything. When was the last glass of water? Must have been last week. The week I found the open pill bottle. It was a week ago, just like it was yesterday. I slept last week, just like it was last night. I have an appointment tomorrow. I hope to arrive sometime next week.