Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Every so often throughout the year I’m forced to go to the doctor for my allergies. I’m allergic to everything – fruit, paper, bullshit – you name it. I don’t subscribe to clinics of any kind, so my allergist, regular doctor – even my dermatologist – are at the same hospital. Today, while visiting my allergist, I commented that I have had difficulty sleeping for months and that I could stand to be prescribed a sleep-aide or some antidepressant of some kind. For the record, I’m a former pharmacy technician and can probably prescribe my own medication, but I like to make my doctor feel empowered. That said, my doctor suggests I visit a friend of hers – a psychiatrist on staff – to discuss what may be the underlying reason for my insomnia and maybe provide greater insight on getting myself back on track. With the greatest of ease, the allergist dials the head doctor a few floors away and asks if she would squeeze me in for 30 minutes. Let me preface this little piece by saying that I have never visited a psychologist – much less a psychiatrist. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, but I just don’t think the alleged pros can provide me with any greater insight that I provide myself (I know, delusional) and really don’t like talking about the BIG issues with anyone who isn’t really invested in the nuances of my life. So I stroll in to see Dr. Primetime who quickly ushers me back to his comfy office. Once there I sit on his sofa and he sits in a chair adjacent to me and smiles before announcing, “I’m going to ask you a few questions to get acquainted, please answer as honestly as possible.” I shrug and say, “Sure,” thinking that at this point I’ll settle for a hammer and a fifth of Scotch to get my rest. Midway into the questions, I find myself becoming more and more animated, my hands joining my colorful stories – the picture of a Puerto Rican mime explaining the theory of relativity. Doctor P had stopped writing anything on his trusted pad 15 minutes earlier and yet he seemed completely engrossed in my story. At one point I answered a quick telephone call before returning to my elaborate storyline and Dr. P never even shifted in his seat. More than 45 minutes later, I realize that he hadn’t asked me a thing in quite some time and yet I was still yammering away about my sitcom of a life. Realizing this man wasn’t following the time limits I’ve so often seen on televised psych sessions, I stopped and asked, “Hey doc, how long is this little introductory session suppose to go?” He laughed heartily and said, “Have you ever considered writing a book?” My face must have said it all because he quickly caught himself before saying, “You have quite the interesting life,” his pen now writing furiously, “I’d love to see you regularly if you’d like.” My head felt light, but I stood up and announced, “I actually would prefer you gave me a sleep aide and maybe I’ll just forward you a copy of my book when I write one doc.” He smiled nervously and apologized profusely for his choice of words before settling on a simple, “Please consider coming in again.” I thanked Dr. P and reluctantly went to the drug store to get my knock-out pills. Seems like even the professionals think my life is some sort of entertainment.
Do you believe repressed feelings surrounding life experiences have an effect on your daily interaction with others?
Keep passin’ the open windows…