I went to see my drug pusher today.
She has a nice office, of course, in a nice building and she has a lot of pretty professional plaques on the wall and a special chair given to her by the Department of Psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh. And she’s been listed as one of the top psychiatrists in the metro area by Pittsburgh Magazine for at least two years in a row.
And, frankly, she stinks at what she does. And I probably should find (yet) another psychiatrist, but I am so tired of it all.
|Maybe she’s still practicing?|
Today was the day I knew I wasn’t going to get any more help from her than I already am.
I told her about my ER visit and how, after all the tests, they could find nothing wrong with me. I also told her that since then, things have not been getting better with the reprimand still hanging over my head and a supervisor who gave me a yearly rating guaranteeing between the two personnel actions, that I will not be able to leave this job, even if we want to move.
I made it very clear that the drug regimen is not working.
I made it very clear that the work situation was untenable.
All she wants to know is whether I’m going to kill myself. And how. And she wondered about my rusting shotgun.
Exasperated, I said, no, I’m not going to kill myself but if I did I know it wouldn’t be with a shotgun that doesn’t work.
|It was Col. Mustard in the bedroom with the bungee cord|
Well, how, she asked.
I gave this a few seconds of thought. Drowning myself in the koi pond sounded romantic but I didn’t think she’d buy that.
Um, how about a bungee cord from a doorknob? Seems easy enough, and, like those exercisers you see Ronco pushing at Christmas, they fit over any doorknob anywhere – at home, at work, even in your doctor’s waiting room!
Instead of seeing the humor (hell, no one ever sees the humor, I think they’d rather see you off yourself since it would demonstrate that at least you’re a serious person), she asked me if I had any bungee cords at home.
Doctor, do you want to come over to my house and take all my bungee cords? Because if I ever must bring home something large in my car or move, I’ll have to buy a whole other set.
Words fail me some times. This was not one of those times.
|I really think we’re making progress here|
“Look, while you’re there taking my greasy bungee cords, why don’t you help yourself to all the knives and forks in the kitchen too,” I said. “I mean I don’t mean to be disrespectful (but I did), but there are so, so many things you can use to off yourself, it’s only limited by your own imagination!”
See why I’ve gone through so many, many mental health professionals in my life?
As for the drug regimen that is clearly no longer working, that seemed to panic her about as much as the phantom bungee cords (I mean seriously, have you even LOOKED at pictures of suicides doctor? I could show you a few sites. . .).
Her solution was to double down and prescribe more of the same, which we did six months ago.
|Happy happy happy happy|
Yes, if it’s clearly not working, let’s do much more of the same.
With that kind of thinking, I think she has a clear shot to be the next general manager of the Cleveland Browns.
As for the job, her solution was quite novel.
“I just think you need to find a different way of thinking about your job,” she said.
I am seriously not kidding.
And that’s when I knew it was game over.
You see, I think my psychiatrist is probably pretty book smart. But I think judging from what I’ve seen of her credentials and FB site (yes, I spy on everyone – I was in Military Intel, it’s in my blood) that she can’t put herself in the shoes of her patients. I asked her to do that today and she said “I’m trying.”
She can’t. She has never known the want, the pain and the fear inside of people she is looking to help. She can’t relate to it. There’s always a book solution, always another pill, always some, well, bullshit rationale that will keep the patient from bleeding out mentally. At least until they do.
But for Christ’s sakes, don’t die on my watch. The paperwork is such a pain.
Often time I have caught her looking at me as if I was some sort of exotic insect. I suspect many other patients have noticed the same thing as well. We fit somewhere into the diagnosis matrix of the DSM V. Some of us are just a little harder to identify, classify and index.
So, the next time I go back to see her, everything will be fine. I won’t waste her time by whining about intractable issues of jobs and medications and she can get me in and out in enough time to protect her billable hours because her nice Lexus in the parking lot needs paid.
No sense fighting for treatment or a solution. There is no solution and treatment, it seems, is pushing the latest drug the pharmacy rep has just given her samples of (I’ve seen all manner of trinkets on her desk with drug trade names on them).
I should have given up on treatment a long time ago. I was stupid. I believed the advertising, the hype, the caring professionals who said, in the nicest ways, that they wanted to help you.
It’s an industry, like everything else. As for your mental concerns, what it comes down to is this:
You’re on your own sucker.