A clarification on the previous post.
I don't find it hard to tell people I hardly know a lot of detail about me. I find it very easy in fact. I completely disassociate from it, and with the likelihood that I never need to deal with this person in my life again, it's not a concern that this person mind discover intimate details about me, or have the awareness and perceptive abilities to be able to read more about me than I'd like. And there's a handful of people in my life that I'm very close to, that I will happily tell a lot to, because I trust them not to use it to hurt me, and because I can hurt them just as badly back if necessary. The concept of mutually assured destruction is such a satisfying deterrent in the world.
It's the people inbetween that are the big, big problem. And generally, people don't traverse from one end of the spectrum to the other without being an inbetween person at some point - though, at least half of the people who are very close to me did exactly that through some rather inexplicable process when I think back on it.
But yes, fine, I can go to the new doctors and with a relative degree of (outward) calmness tell them plenty about my current state of affairs. And assuming I don't have an all out full blown panic, start vomiting every 5 minutes, or attack them violently, I could probably tell the psychiatrist a fair amount about me in the initial session before I start to get completely paranoid about their intentions. It's the fact that I have to go back that causes (further) issues. It's that you're supposed to establish some kind of rapport with them (which I will do, it just won't be a positive one, I guarantee it). That's where the whole idea starts to fall down in my head. Beyond the risk of violence, physical nausea, random and sudden disappearance etc, that is.
And to top everything off, I have to ring my mother at some point and decide whether I'm going to Christmas or not. Well family Christmas on boxing day. We always get together every year, and it's fun, and I love my crazy big family get togethers and Christmas is the best one of the entire lot. But like so many family Christmases, it's also hell. I struggle to get through it without at least some alcohol or a cigarette in me; it involves, even more than the standard get together, facing endless questions from each and every aunt and grandparent about what I'm doing with my life and how I compare to everyone else in the family. It's a constant dodging and minefield stepping of social interactions against people who offer you no mercies in their probing or judgement and who never forget to recall each and every past action good or bad that you ever made. I'm not sure, given I'm going crazy and having to face one hell of a nightmare to deal with it, as well as working like hell due to a crisis that's occurred at the venue (I did 20 hours work in 24 yesterday, and have to do 12 - 14 today), that attempting to deal with the love/hate joy that is a family Christmas gathering is something I'm prepared to put up with right now. And further, this will involve explaining all of this to my mother, and trying to get across why I'm not just blowing off family Christmas and being an arse, without panicking her by telling her I'm suicidally depressed right now. I haven't quite worked out how I'm going to do this yet.