We Have a Pill For That...

Okay, so today I had my long awaited appointment with the shrink the St. Anthony's O-My-God-I'm-Going-Crazy hotline service hooked me up with shortly after the Biff Debacle. The appointment was at 10 a.m., so I was obliged to take the morning off. Grayson was with me because it's a school holiday. I should have known the deal was dodgy when I realized where the office was. The Oklahoma City Center for Psychiatry... note "psychiatry," not "psychology..." is conveniently located in the heart of the hood... where all the pill pushers operate.... on 23rd street opposite Shepherd Mall, in a shabby building that looks like it may once have been a Chinese restaurant.

My next clue should have been that there was a waiting room full of people. Now, I won't say I'm a nut job or anything, but I've been to a couple of therapists in my time. Typically there's a discreet office entry with a closed door that leads to the shrink's inner sanctum, where the actual head shrinkage takes place, usually in one-hour billable increments. Often there's an even more discreet exit that bypasses the entry lobby, so the patients don't have to bear the potential embarrassment of meeting someone they know as they enter or exit the head-shrinker's office.

Not this place. Big lobby like the Inner City Free Clinic, full of greasy-haired people sleeping off their Xanax. Each appointment lasted about 10 to 15 minutes... just long enough to write up prescription, I'm guessing.

We waited an hour. Grayson was almost in full revolt by the time the "doc" called my name. Grayson stayed out in the office with the freakshow and I went into the office... turns out it wasn't even his office, he was a stand-in for the actual doc. Who knows who he was. The desk was covered in dust. Everything was shabby and sad and lit by flourescent tubes set in a grubby, water-stained drop-ceiling.

"So why are you here today?" He said. Seemed nice enough. I gave him the four-minute version of my life. He said "I'm sorry." And then asked me a few perfunctory questions. Did I have trouble with my sleep or appetite? Feelings of helplessness or hopelessness? (Like DUH. That's why I'm here, right??) Then, my personal favorite, Did I hear voices? Finally, did I have suicidal thoughts? Well, no, not until I got here.

Then "well, we can increase your Effexor dose... and we can add this new medicine, "Abilify," that enhances the Effexor. Or we coud try something new."

In other words: "You got divorced, turned your life inside out, then got your heart broken and now your life is in chaos... no sweat! We have a pill for that!" Then: "having trouble sleeping? No problem! We have a pill for that!" It was the most amazing and bizarre medical encounter of my life. This guy had no interest in talking to me about my problems, or even gaining any really meaningful insight into my state of mind. He was a prescription-writing machine. I couldn't help but wonder about all the psychotics and schizophrenics and manic depressives that were probably just cruising in here once a month to get loaded up on whatever was the drug of the day, and then lumbering back out into traffic.

He wrote me prescriptions for more Effexor (he insisted I get all my meds from him), and another for a sleeping pill (which could also come in handy if I DID have suicidal thoughts), and I got the hell out of there. I will never... ever... return. I'll go crazy gleefully before I'll go back into that nuthouse.