“you need to see a shrink........”
So I do; go dutifully back to a psychiatrist, first time in 11-12 years, on the loving suggestion of my all-knowing superior brother in Boston.
I report I set all my clocks to the atomic-clock in Boulder, and the psychiatrist looks at me quizzically and says “This is a problem? You had a stroke. What’s so strange about bringing order out of chaos? I synchronize all my clocks and I didn’t have a stroke.
“And your brother went ballistic over this? HMMMMNNNN. Sounds like he has self-esteem issues of his own.”
“And you say he bad-mouths everything you do or say? Absolutely everything? Sounds insecure to me. Maybe I could help him.”
I dealt with a so-called shrink (actually three or four) years ago. They all had a rather curious habit of disregarding my stroke — saying everything came from a difficult childhood.
They also were making me explain everything every visit — you’d think they had a folder to review. The nurses at Park-Ridge did; a massive 3-ring binder. They’d hide behind it.
As far as I could see, it was a racket. The shrinks go through the motions so they can collect from Blue-Shield.
I was prescribed anti-depressants. I resisted at first, but finally caved. The prognosis was a stroke would throw off the chemical balance of your brain, and drugs would restore it.
First was Prozac, which did nothing except almost knock me out. Tried it for a month or two (“It takes time for it to take effect” — not much time to almost knock me out). I remember having to lay down in the so-called soccer-mom minivan at the Pittsford Weggers after almost collapsing in the store three days after starting the pills.
“So we have to try something else. We have to try different drugs until we find one that does something.”
Great; they all knock me out, but don’t lower depression a bit. The drugs were making it impossible for me to run — turning me into a zombie.
So finally I said “enough.” No more drugs. The depression wasn’t that bad. We’re flying on our own. The best anti-depressant I ever had was working at the mighty Mezz.
Maybe you could tell a shrink about that $15 auto-loan insurance charge; where you almost lunched a sale for a $39,000 truck. They’re waiting for you, Bubba. With their white straitjackets.
I report I set all my clocks to the atomic-clock in Boulder, and the psychiatrist looks at me quizzically and says “This is a problem? You had a stroke. What’s so strange about bringing order out of chaos? I synchronize all my clocks and I didn’t have a stroke.
“And your brother went ballistic over this? HMMMMNNNN. Sounds like he has self-esteem issues of his own.”
“And you say he bad-mouths everything you do or say? Absolutely everything? Sounds insecure to me. Maybe I could help him.”
I dealt with a so-called shrink (actually three or four) years ago. They all had a rather curious habit of disregarding my stroke — saying everything came from a difficult childhood.
They also were making me explain everything every visit — you’d think they had a folder to review. The nurses at Park-Ridge did; a massive 3-ring binder. They’d hide behind it.
As far as I could see, it was a racket. The shrinks go through the motions so they can collect from Blue-Shield.
I was prescribed anti-depressants. I resisted at first, but finally caved. The prognosis was a stroke would throw off the chemical balance of your brain, and drugs would restore it.
First was Prozac, which did nothing except almost knock me out. Tried it for a month or two (“It takes time for it to take effect” — not much time to almost knock me out). I remember having to lay down in the so-called soccer-mom minivan at the Pittsford Weggers after almost collapsing in the store three days after starting the pills.
“So we have to try something else. We have to try different drugs until we find one that does something.”
Great; they all knock me out, but don’t lower depression a bit. The drugs were making it impossible for me to run — turning me into a zombie.
So finally I said “enough.” No more drugs. The depression wasn’t that bad. We’re flying on our own. The best anti-depressant I ever had was working at the mighty Mezz.
Maybe you could tell a shrink about that $15 auto-loan insurance charge; where you almost lunched a sale for a $39,000 truck. They’re waiting for you, Bubba. With their white straitjackets.
posted by BobbaLew at 11:03 AM
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