I had my first visit to a psychiatrist today. And no, I am not crazy unless you count the time I left the house wearing a pair of red jeans and brown tee with a mushroom on the front that said “I’m a Fungi.” I say it was a fashion statement and I’m sticking to it.
My therapist thought a second opinion (and possibly some chemical enhancement) might not be a bad idea. Then again, she was the one who determined I was an “External Processor” which was about $1,000 worth of “You talk too much.” My wife could have told her that in the first 5 minutes and saved me a bundle.
I did my best to convince her there was nothing wrong with me because there’s a lot of stigma attached to seeking professional help. I mean, who wants to admit they’re two nuggets short of a Happy Meal? Not to say I am, but there may be a connection between this duo of missing nuggets and my fear of people with over-sized shoes and bright red hair. Perhaps a professional could help me sort this out.
Also one must count the cost. For $350 (doctor’s initial visit) I could buy 35 of every item on McDonald’s value menu and make lifetime friends out of every “will work for food” guy within a twenty-mile radius. Okay, that is a little crazy, but I was just spitballing.
Things I’ve learned:
- The more you try to convince someone you’re not crazy, the crazier you sound.
- Sitting down on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office and exposing your mental foibles to a complete stranger is no different than the crazy homeless guy who walks around town asking for spare change while carrying on a conversation with Abraham Lincoln. Neither of us will get the answers we seek, but he'll make a few bucks while I'll have to forfeit my daily Starbucks latte for three months.
- There are worse things than being a few neurons short of normal. I could be Justin Bieber’s mom or Rob Kardashian.
K.G.
No comments:
Post a Comment