So I saw my psychiatrist yesterday. Sorta. I’d originally had an appointment scheduled for January 5th, but then I had a school thing that day, so I rescheduled to the 22nd. I was dreading it like crazy. I just had a feeling it would not go well. And man, was I ever right.
A little backstory: I had been off all psychiatric medications since 2010. Then, when I began seeing Zooey, shit started coming up and my symptoms worsened. By April, she’d started mentioning medication. I assumed she’d probably keep mentioning it until I tried something, so I agreed to see one of the doctors she works with at a local psychiatric Emergency Room. I actually liked this physician a lot, but it turns out she was leaving private practice in June. Great.
I was in the process of trying to find someone new when I was hospitalized for three days in August. Turns out the hospital staff cannot discharge you unless you have a follow-up appointment with a psychiatrist within one week. So they threw me in with some random second-year resident at their outpatient clinic and called it settled. Whatever. As long as he can write the scripts, I honestly didn’t care.
But that, of course, meant that my psychiatrist was now also a co-worker of Zooey’s. And he made a point of reminding me of that whenever I didn’t 100% agree with him. It was this strange “Mommy and Daddy” dynamic that I brought to Zooey’s attention (and, of course, we never actually discussed in any depth). It was super annoying to have him constantly using my relationship with her as leverage, but as long as those scripts kept coming, I figured it was tolerable.
Yesterday, however, was just a mess…
I get to the clinic and explain that I no longer have insurance. I figured like any other American business, the hospital would be happy to just take my money. Well, no, they were not. They “let me speak with” my doctor, who was all “I’m worried about you” (yeah. okay, buddy) who then held my scripts hostage while he talked to the front desk. They had absolutely no idea what to do for roughly five minutes (apparently no one in the history of this clinic has lost their insurance coverage?) before deciding I would need to become a “charity client” (wtf?) and thus needed to go to some other building to speak with patient accounts and then come back with new paperwork to get my now ransomed prescriptions.
Um, no. This psychiatrist is mediocre at best. My wife calls him “Dr. Fetus-face” because he is an actual infant. He has to be mid-twenties, but he looks about 18. I don’t think he even believes in DID and despite the fact that I do not have a mood disorder, he spent two entire months trying to convince me to take a mood stabilizer. Plus there’s his affiliation with Zooey.
I feel (kinda) bad about this, but I did not go get the paperwork handled with patient accounts. What I actually did was set the papers down, said “FUCK THIS” to both my doctor and the front-desk receptionist, and promptly walked the fuck out of there. My doctor offered a feeble attempt at calling out my name, but it was the most half-assed and sad little sound ever. I turned back just long enough to reply “No.”
Clearly I projected a lot of my anger towards Zooey onto Dr. FF. Whatever. It didn’t feel safe to be properly pissed at Zooey when she blew up my life, so I figured he was a nice secondary target. He’ll think about how weird yesterday was for like 4.5 minutes and then move on. No harm done. But I won’t lie – it felt REALLY good to discharge some of that anger onto someone, especially someone who’s at least tangentially connected with Zooey.
Also, if I’m gonna be throwing my cash at a psychiatrist, I’m gonna find someone who’s actually qualified to treat my diagnoses and, you know, believes in them. Which means I am now without both a therapist AND a psychiatrist.
Totally killing it.