. . . so, I don’t know why, I thought I’d give a mental health professional a try. Thank Christ the lunatic was as heavy-handed and blatant as he was, and I remain free and with a chance of being happy and healthy again. It wasn’t close, like by inches, but when you and a predator see one another and you live to tell the tale, that is as close as you ever want. Funny story, though.
His manipulation was immediate.
He showed me into his office and I paused, admiring his Scandinavian teak furniture and his chair, just looking around, right, checking out my surroundings, and before fifteen seconds had passed, this asshole had ordered me to sit on the couch twice, I guess he thought I wanted his chair or something.
It never changed, his attitude only got more imperious after everything I said. He didn’t let me finish a sentence and then told me everything about me based on what he never let me say in the first place. I got up to leave after ten minutes of this shit and he ordered me back to my chair, lectured me for fifteen more minutes and then he told me I should leave – his idea, right? Control freak, apparently a psychopath. The guy was so burnt out, it’s clear that he didn’t want any patients, or at least any that didn’t pass his litmus test of total dominance and abuse.
I am so regretting keeping it civil and shaking his fucking hand at the end, I wanted so bad to write him or something and retract it, but of course, fuck that and fuck him. I’ll just spend the rest of my life telling people about him and people like him. This really was a fork in the road sort of moment. I really did know that the world of normals had no chance of helping me, and now I’ve seen it firsthand, the abusive hand of therapy. I’m with the crazies now, call us what you will. That is what becomes of a good, but mutated idea like psychiatry in the warrior society, crazy-making specialists.
I think the point for folks in this group, is losing one’s mind is a problem, going crazy is a problem, but becoming a mental patient is a much worse problem. I keep looking for help and then backing away terrified, and this last year there have been close calls a few times, I’m lucky I haven’t managed to get myself an official diagnosis and a mittful of prescriptions. I haven’t gotten any help – but I’m not in the control of a bunch of folks crazier and more externalizing than I am, either. Net good, I think. I’m not feeling that much better, still nothing to look forward to, still the crying jags, and what about that? I kind of thought if I just let myself bawl for a year or two that would help, but the relief doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. I’ve intellectualized all my life, and now I’m feeling, a lot.
Please don’t tell me I have to do it all together.
Wait, that’s not funny!
The thing is, I started trying to find some help among the normals a year and a half ago. It took some doing, with help from a GP and a counsellor to make it happen, but all they wanted to do was have me stop smoking dope and take an antidepressant instead – the GPs didn’t want to think about interactions between their pill and marijuana. I could have told them I didn’t toke, but I had just had an adverse drug reaction, that for all I know was an interaction with marijuana, and I didn’t want to risk another either. That was why I was in trouble to a large degree in the first place. So, my weed, my honesty, my own gun-shyness about new drugs, blocked me being medicated, and also from being referred to a psychiatrist during the year and a half that I lost my family and I finally managed to negotiate this introduction to this therapist.
If you’re an addict, they don’t want to waste their time with you – so the offer was: tell us you’re clean, and then we’ll start the process – the year-long wait list for a therapist. I managed, with the help of a drug counsellor to convince my GP that if they could arrange for an evaluation, give me a date, I could plan to show up clean for the date – you know, when something else was going to happen, when I was going to have someone to talk to, then I’d pony up and live sober for a while, since it was a reasonable condition for therapy – just not for the frigging wait period, was my attitude. I was getting high when I couldn’t avoid suicidal thoughts, and I have been amazed myself that weed works for that in the very short term, but it has been working, even during times when I was sure nothing would. I think I am a rat in an electrified cage with a lever to push when the shocks come and I see the entire world of addiction therapy and rehab as offering only to take away the lever. So, my counsellor, the GP and I set it up, and I got a referral to a therapist (I don’t know his creds).
I thought they’d want me to clean up for some period, a month, but they called and set up an appointment a week away, and frankly – I just realized this in telling it – I forgot to clean up! I mean, they didn’t respond like I wanted, like I thought they wanted, call, tell me how long, negotiate a date, but when they didn’t, I admit now, I forgot the plan too. LOL.
Doesn’t matter, not to me. If it had been within the first few weeks of smoking withdrawal (weed’s the same as tobacco, two cranky weeks), as that date would have, I might have picked a fight with the bastard, it was probably a good thing I went in mellow, kept me outta jail. But that was the joke – cock-blocked for weed for a year and a half, lose everything – and then some authoritarian manipulative mandarin I would never spend a full hour with if he paid me, and I’m walking out ten minutes in! I was pissed for a day or two, then I thought of Man in the Moon, Andy Kaufman taking that trip to the psychic surgeon and realizing what a practical joke that was, and laughing at it, despite what it meant for his prognosis. This was very much like that, in his attitude, in mine – and in the chances of success.
And I’m almost at Andy’s level of perspective too, I can take the long view. I’m gonna try to enjoy the joke.
September 15th., 2017