Thursday, August 17, 2006

Shrinking Pyschology

Don’t get me started. I have enough problems with public bathrooms as it is. The worst part about public bathrooms is when you expect it to be clean…but it’s not. I run into this crap (so to speak) all the time. It’s not only ‘just a public bathroom’, but one that was located in my psychiatrist’s office. Each time I arrive at doc’s office, I have to use the ladies’ room. I don’t know if it’s from nerves, or if it’s from that whole, ‘let me get this over with so I don’t have to cross my legs real tight’ sort of fiasco. I just have to go.

I rush into the glass doors of the building, and run straight to the loo. I open the door, turn on the light and plop my purse on the corner of the floor. I don’t think anyone urinates there—so it’s safe. Later on, I’ll dowse that thing up with rubbing alcohol. It’s all good.

As I check out the sink to see if droplets and tiny pieces of curly pubic hair aren't lying around, I then check out the toilet seat to check if that’s ‘clear’.

Oh it was clear alright. But the one thing that wasn’t…was inside the porcelain bowl staring back up at me. Someone obviously had bad Mexican food, or didn’t take well to the meds that doc prescribed. I’m not sure. Whatever this mess was, I wasn’t about to sit above it. I wasn’t about to flush this myself. Instead…I dry heaved.

Okay, no problem. I don’t have to go that bad anyway. I head into doc’s office with my OCD flaring to its maximum and my fear of ‘having to go pee’ at a high alert. Doc notices my discomfort and quickly takes a sip of his coffee which is in a dark brown mug. It’s probably scotch. I’m his last patient, so by the time I get to him, he’s already tapped the dry bar behind his desk a few times. Nothing wrong with a few nips here and there, especially dealing with psychos like myself.

Doc looks at me. I look at doc. He sips again. I now know for sure…it’s scotch. We always have this awkward ‘who’s gonna talk first’ moment. It’s eerie, especially with him. He’s tired. I’m tired. He’s watching the clock. I’m watching the clock more.

“Hiya doc!” I blurt out with excitement just to scare him—or sober him up.
“Heh…hello.” He says, as he giggles through another sip of his ‘coffee’.

*Silence*

“So, what’s up?” I said.
“Nothing. Heh. So how are you?”

At that time, the phone rings. This little bastard has the audacity to pick up the phone right when I’m about to tell him what’s wrong with me! Maybe he has the right idea; scotch and being saved by the bell. Great. Check please! It’s like a bad date. The other person talks about something the other person doesn't want to hear, and the other person sits there looking at the time. It’s a commitment from hell.

He stays on the phone making an appointment for some other lost soul. I sat there picking my cuticles. I had nothing else to do. Maybe I should fill up my Poland Springs with Ketel One. We’d both be happy at least.

Doc hangs up the phone and starts writing in his schedule book for about two minutes. Now, not for nothing, but two minutes is a long time to sit there and fiddle-faddle with your scheduling book—especially having a mental patient sitting right in front of you.

Hello! Remember me?

“So do you have a night crew to come in and clean?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Have you seen the ladies’ room?”
“No. I use the men’s room.”
He says, looking at me as though he just made the best joke of his life.
“It’s disgusting. I’m freaking out and I feel dirty.”
“Why do you feel dirty?”
“They didn’t flush the rest of their puréed burritos down the toilet.”
“And how does this make you feel dirty?”
“Molecules are in the air all the time doc! It’s disgusting.”
“Why didn’t you flush it?”
“Why should I?”
“Why are we here today?”
He asked.

At that point, I had no clue. I had no idea why I am still seeing this doc other than to get some advice on how to live my life and to fill up on those needed scripts of ativan. My anxiety attacks are less, and I asked if I could cut down my medication in half. I wanted to wean off.

“Well, that’s a great start Deb. You’ve been on this medication long enough. Weaning off is good.”
“Do I at least get cognitive behavioral therapy while I’m in the process of withdrawals and convulsions?”
“We can work on what your goals are after you stop taking the medications.”
“What about effective ways on handling my anxiety? How do I handle the anxiety when I am cutting back on the meds?”
“What works for you?”
“Why am I here???”

You know what’s sad? I get my therapy and cognitive behavior techniques online. Yeah, yeah, I know, online advice is ‘iffy’…but I found someone who really does help. If you visit Dr. Deborah Serani’s site called, “Psychological Perspectives”, she gives some great tips on everyday life struggles and advice to those who need help. It’s really an interesting site that anyone can benefit from.

I need a new doctor…ASAP.

Problems with my doc:

* Answers the phone all the time. Some calls last up to five minutes each. On a regular basis, the phone will ring 3-4 times. That’s twenty minutes of my time!


* Doesn’t give me CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) which is crucial to anyone that has anxiety and panic attacks as well as agoraphobia. He only spurts out a little advice here and there. My dad can do that. Wait…bad idea.


* The man has marbles in his mouth. You can barely make out what he’s saying to you. I consistently keep asking him to repeat himself. “What? What? What?” It’s exhausting.

Problems with finding good psychiatrists:

* Most psychiatrists overbook. They do this so that if one cancels or decides not to go, they have people waiting in the wings.


* There are hardly any in my immediate area who are willing to take me after 5pm. I’d need night appointments.


* (Take this with a grain of salt please.) When I do find a psychiatrist, they’ll sometimes be of an Indian or Pakistani decent, with very thick accents. I can barely make out what they’re saying. I’m not being prejudice, I just want to hear them and understand what they are saying.

Okay, now I’m off for some self-medicating. Red wine and a nice burger to compliment that fine alcohol. Any advice on what I should do would be appreciated. I’m totally being serious and embarrassingly honest here. Yes, the description in my profile is true!

I should write up a personal ad:

NCL: Neurotic Christian lesbian seeks a well spoken head doc. Loves pina coladas and walks in the rain. I’m not into yoga, but I have half-a-brain. I’m not into health food I am into champagne (on a beer budget) I call it meds.