shrink snarkiness
I met with my new psychiatrist yesterday. I have to describe him. He looks like a Steve Martin parody of a psychiatrist, complete with the graying hair. He was wearing chocolate brown suede crepe soled shoes, black pants, white shirt and a maroon cardigan with a little fire breathing dragon (?) where an alligator or polo player would normally be. It seems as though I have seen the fire breathing dragon logo before, but it was still a surprise. Back in the early 80's there was a boom on these logo polo shirts. The "preppy" trend was still in full force in the midwest. For those of us who couldn't convince our parents that an alligator or polo guy was absolutely necessary, there were unicorns, ducks, tigers (or "le tigre" to be exact), J.Crew had an "oarsman", and so on. The cardigan had to be from this era. He also had on a red tie (red with maroon, black with chocolate, Good Lord, man!) with Santa Claus heads all over it, and a tie pin. The tie pin was gold plated with a round garnet-esque stone. Now, mind you, this was not done in an ironic Rivers Cuomo, indie rock nerd chic kind of way. This guy was dead serious about this outfit. The dragon, the Santas, the pin were earnestly put together. The effect produced a similiar response as when I see pictures of Karl Lagerfeld. This guy designs? This guy designs for Chanel? This guy practices psychiatry? He's obviously undiagnosed, himself.
He was over half an hour late for the appointment. He had the annoying habit of asking a question, not allowing me to answer, and asking another question. He contorted his head around not unlike Joaquin Pheonix performing as Johnny Cash as he talked. He then had the audacity to re-ask the questions that he had previously not allowed me to answer. While I spoke he organized his papers, read and discarded scribbled-on post it notes, opened his desk drawer and inspected it intently, shuffled and restacked manilla folders, etc. It was completely unnerving. I am already vacilating between irritable and exhausted. You can imagine.
His office was ridiculous. Files and folders and papers stacked on every available inch of desk, the adjoining window ledge, across the floor to the wall. This was how my apartment looked right before my most recent hospitalization.
When we had concluded the session, he spun his chair so that his back was to me and pushed off, gliding across the office until his chair rested at a point just ahead, but next to mine. He stuck out his hand for me to shake it. I reached for it and he pulled it away. "Do you have any questions?" he asked. "No, thank you. " I replied. He produced his hand again. I hesitated then shook it. He told me that I didn't "show my depression." I told him the wailing and gnashing of teeth were over for now. My mental illness is no longer a novelty. I have lived with it my whole life. Unless I am in the midst of a major episode, I plod along. Mental health pros are an odd lot. I might do a series of entries about the strangest ones I've encountered.
He was over half an hour late for the appointment. He had the annoying habit of asking a question, not allowing me to answer, and asking another question. He contorted his head around not unlike Joaquin Pheonix performing as Johnny Cash as he talked. He then had the audacity to re-ask the questions that he had previously not allowed me to answer. While I spoke he organized his papers, read and discarded scribbled-on post it notes, opened his desk drawer and inspected it intently, shuffled and restacked manilla folders, etc. It was completely unnerving. I am already vacilating between irritable and exhausted. You can imagine.
His office was ridiculous. Files and folders and papers stacked on every available inch of desk, the adjoining window ledge, across the floor to the wall. This was how my apartment looked right before my most recent hospitalization.
When we had concluded the session, he spun his chair so that his back was to me and pushed off, gliding across the office until his chair rested at a point just ahead, but next to mine. He stuck out his hand for me to shake it. I reached for it and he pulled it away. "Do you have any questions?" he asked. "No, thank you. " I replied. He produced his hand again. I hesitated then shook it. He told me that I didn't "show my depression." I told him the wailing and gnashing of teeth were over for now. My mental illness is no longer a novelty. I have lived with it my whole life. Unless I am in the midst of a major episode, I plod along. Mental health pros are an odd lot. I might do a series of entries about the strangest ones I've encountered.
posted by katherine at 7:10 AM
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