If a certain doctor had his way, I would be medicated like a 1950s madwife.
It all started in October, when I became the Hunchback of Noter Damn. After my back went wonky while doing laundry, MRI results showed Degenerative Disk Disease, and there's not a damn thing to be done for it. While I would like a prescription for no laundry, clothes get dirty. Also, Monkey insists that I feed him and clothe him and provide medical care, which requires working a full-time job. To tell the truth, I really don't have time for chronic back pain.
First we tried physical therapy, but it was time-consuming and expensive. So my back doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist. My back hurts because I am stressed, and I'm stressed because my back hurts. For example, when I open my Entergy bill, my back absolutely throbs.
However, I was afraid the doctor would want to psychoanalyze me. I told the boyfriend, "I really hope he does not smell old. I hope he does not have golf trophies in his office. I also have a problem with facial hair. If he looks at all like Freud, I'm gone."
I do try to be open-minded, you know.
A week prior to my first appointment, I received an intake form where I got to answer personal questions such as, "Describe your first sexual experience." And "What is your earliest memory?" Yep. It looked like this guy was going Freud on my ass for sure. I was also directed to get a "word picture" from my best friend, my significant other and someone who does not like me. I learned that I'm a "compassionate mean-spirit."
The next section asked me to fill in the blanks. "I feel (blank). I think (blank). I am (blank)." For the record, "I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and bright" is not the correct answer.
During my first session, the doctor flipped through my intake form and asked insightful questions such as, "What do you mean by 'I feel overwhelmed?'" I answered, "Overwhelmed." He decided our plan of action would be to take several vials of blood, complete some personality questionnaires and get me in with a therapist so I could vent some stress. Sounded perfect. I have lots of stress and love to bitch about it.
But oh no. This chick wasn't getting off that easy! At session two, the good doctor took about 30 seconds to review the results of my personality tests and expressed great consternation. He told me I should trust people more (true). He told me that I have quit doing the things that bring me joy, such as writing, and I need to stop that (true). He told me that he is seeing signs of an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and he would like for me to take this armload of pills that will put me back on the right track.
Excuse me? OCD? You get OCD from blood tests and two personality tests that were taken in 10 minutes? Have you seen my home? Have you seen my work space? Have you seen my socks that don't match? Does this look like a chick who has a ritualistic obsession with putting things in order?
So I started thinking: Is this guy a quackasaurus? From the lack of decent reading material in the waiting room to the guy in the "I Tried" T-shirt at the front desk, my gut told me that this really wasn't the place for me and my back pain. The hunch was confirmed when a pharmacist told me, "You'd be drooling like a narcoleptic Scooby Doo if you took all these pills." In fact, the medication is intended for schizophrenics. Stressed I am; schizophrenic I am not.
When I returned to my back doctor, he suggested that I see the therapist on-site who specializes in pain management. Yes! Let's try that please! I am not against therapy, but I refuse to take any medication that lists side effects of dizziness, hallucinations, facial tics and death. I'm all for living better through chemistry, but where do we draw the line between mental illness and a women who just has too much on her plate?
And if we've returned to the era of over-medicating our women, I will require much more jewelry and a daily cocktail hour.
This Emily Braden lady is a fine writer. I can't wait to see more of her writings and stories.
- Ray Carter
I searched tirelessly for where to place this new information. I just wanted to let the women know that it appears Carla LaFave has gotten off her charges. MSNBC is reporting that the charges have been dropped. I hope she has learned a lesson about fooling with little boys.
She should do the right thing and turn instead to men fifty and over. Quack. Quack.
- Ray Carter