Visit to Dr L
14 June 2012
We’ve found the cure! ‘We’ shares the load and does not become too hopeful as to the success of the prescription. ‘We’ agrees with the diagnosis. If it were ‘I’, there would be more hedging towards this kind of thought pattern: personality trait…. hereditary…. natural energy levels…. of course God is in my life and heals my wounds….you’re right, psychiatric medicine is a profitable industry with some clever quacks driving BMW’s while they test on me…… I am just one of many paying guinea pigs…. everyone gets this depressed, right?. To be sure, the world is a god-damn awful place: the media across 655 countries can’t be wrong.
She’s changed my meds. I kept cancelling because I didn’t want them changed, I was on a good path to decreasing everything myself an inch at a time, and a clear path to leaving this madness as a typical Cogitator-induced chapter in my book. I went to see Dr L, my psychiatrist, three years ago, and got myself a diagnosis. Show me someone who has been to see a psychiatrist and HASN’T been diagnosed? So if I could only get to the point of not seeing her ever again, I can walk away from the whole embarrassing mess. There are real people out there who need help goddammit – no need to focus on us lot in the heart of the exclusive northern suburbs of the biggest city in Africa. This is not an appropriate allocation of the world’s resources and certainly nonsense according to 87% of my friends and family. I am calm, collected, caring, successful, determined, strong-willed, methodical, clever, loving. Yes, a little self-involved and forgetful, oh and bumps her car at least once a month. Minor faults. Overall, a dashing human being. And I am all these things. And more.
Here’s what it’s really like in the mind and body of The Cogitator:
Fidget in meetings. But I practice my eye contact and the nodding, punctuated with the odd grunt. Drink Monday to Friday to come down. Drink Friday to Sunday to fuel the rush. Live on coffee, muffins and baked cheesecake. Drop R5K on a night cream on my stop over at Melrose Arch on my way home. Ditch work to fly to CT for a planned all-nighter. Compose inappropriate emails to people who thought they had just gotten rid of me. (The only reason I didn’t push send is because I did that last year, and the guy eventually had to say we could be together when we were grey. No jokes. Like in old and facing death. The ugly end came during my phone call to him from the psych ward.) Finding a new friend and insisting we have coffee EVERY DAY. Writing an outraged blog to the poor sod who was in my path earlier this year. Yes, the other coward who didn’t call. My friends take away Facebook password. I delete my Facebook profile. Then I sneakily sign up using a pseudonym so I can see what the sods are up to. And I am gob smacked when the finance guy doesn’t swoon and faint on meeting me.
She’s changed my meds, which are partly paid for by the ExecSuperDuperHelicopterLift medical aid I pay for every month. I may not deserve the meds, I may not even need the meds, but I can pay for the meds and Dr L gets to keep her happy client.