NOTE: Because I am moving out of New York City in a few months, I’ve decided to document my remaining days here by writing about the people I encounter on a somewhat regular basis. The names have been changed to protect me.
t’s a small room, about the size of a New York kitchen (not the gourmet kind). And a good 20% of it is occupied by an enormous television, which is always on with the volume turned all the way up. There are eight straight-back chairs lining the walls, a small window through which you say howdy to the receptionist, and a small stack of magazines—always a surprising assortment of high- and low-brow publications, all of them old. But I dare you to read one while the TV is blaring.
The psychiatrist is middle-aged and always wears a suit. He is tallish, with short black hair and ordinary brown eyes. He has puffy chipmunk cheeks, but they have dropped with age. He has big teeth. The chipmunk cheeks and the big teeth give him a goofy smile. I’ll call him Dr. J.
Dr. J’s real name and olive skin suggest he is middle-eastern, but he is not one to answer personal questions, so I never ask about his origins. His name and olive skin have nothing to do with the fact that he is a lousy psychiatrist—he just is. In fact, he may be the worst psychiatrist in the five boroughs. I started seeing him because he was the only psychiatrist I could find who was taking new patients. Maybe some others are taking patients by now, but I don’t really care any more. He can write prescriptions, Dr. J can—and that’s what matters. I need a monthly supply of antidepressants, nothing more. No psychiatric gobbledy-gook, thank you very much, which Dr. J seems happy to skip as well—most of the time. Once in a blue moon he gets an impulse to behave like a bona fide shrink, which is never pleasant…but more on that later. I’m usually in and out of his office in 10 minutes or less. He says hello, asks me to rate the preceding month on a scale of 1 to 10. I always rate it 7.5 or 8.5. He always laughs at the point five. Then he says, “Why 7.5? Why not 8?” And I make up some reason. He nods and writes my prescription. And I’m outta there.
It’s not such a bad arrangement. The only downside is when he’s backed up with patients and I have to hang out in the waiting room. When the room is full, it’s wildly unpleasant. There’s the aforementioned TV. And the entry door is impossible to shut without slamming, despite a sign on it warning you not to. At least half the people in the waiting room are talking on their phones, despite a sign on the wall saying cell phone use is verboten. When anyone walks around, the room becomes even more claustrophobic. These four things—the TV, the slamming door, the cell phone chatter, and the ambulation—make me want to shoot myself after about 10 minutes.
As for the patients themselves, they tend to be either extremely quiet, like the guy in the plaid shirt who stares at his feet the whole time he waits, then shuffles timidly out of sight when Dr. J calls him in. (Overmedicated, I decide.) Then there’s the tall, faux-red-haired, talkaholic woman and her 20-year-old son. She jabbers nonstop to anybody who makes eye contact. If you are one of the unlucky ones and try to carry on your half of the conversation, she will hold her palm up to shush you and keep right on talking. Her son, meanwhile, looks like he’s already had a hell of a life in his 20 short years. He walks with an extreme limp, has dark circles under his eyes, is bone-thin, and actually seems to enjoy his mother’s company. He confirms his mother’s report—delivered to the room at large—that he is addicted to painkillers. The way the duo talks about it is weird, almost like they are guests on Oprah.
I’m no prize myself. Although it’s pouring rain and rather cold outside, I’m wearing shorts that say “I ♥ New York” and a matching T-shirt. I’m also wearing flip-flops despite the fact that my toenail polish is half grown out. I’m dressed this way because I decided this morning that I couldn’t deal with summer being over. (I’m also practicing being nostalgic for the city.) I haven’t washed my hair in about a week. I am sure I look like my own kind of crazy to the other patients, but I don’t care. There is absolutely no chance I will ever see anybody I know in this office. My friends and acquaintances are way too smart and nowhere near as lackadaisical as I am. Somebody once told me: “You’re not laid back, you’re laid out.” That says it all.
When Dr. J finally calls me in and asks me to rate the month, I give it a 6, just to change things up. He looks disturbed. Nothing makes Dr. J less empathetic than the exhibition of actual mental problems. He glares at me.
“Why are you rating it so low?” he barks.
“It wasn’t that great of a month,” I say, repeating the obvious.
“What happened?” he wants to know. His eyebrows have knit together into one unbroken wad of hair.
“I spent too much money and was really broke the rest of the month,” I explain, which is true enough.
Dr. J ponders this information, then decides I have been having manic episodes. He angrily quizzes me about the rest of my behavior.
“Do you think that billboards talk to you?” he asks.
“No, but I think the radio does,” I say, unable to suppress a giggle.
“You are acting very different today!”
“How am I different?” I ask, genuinely curious.
But Dr. J is clearly angry. He glowers at me across his desk, upon which sits a small plastic replica of a brain. Every time I see it, I stifle the impulse to crush it in my palm. There’s probably some disturbing truth to be revealed in that impulse, but Dr. J will never discover it.
He writes me a prescription, adding a mood stabilizer to my regimen to quell my supposed mania. I say nothing. There’s no need to protest. By next month, he’ll either have forgotten this episode entirely, or will accept my request to drop the mood stabilizer without discussion. That’s the way he is.
I tuck the prescription in my wallet, where there is a clump of other unfilled ones. Then, when Dr. J remains dead silent, I excuse myself and leave. He obviously is sickened by the very sight of me. That fact distresses me, I must admit. I do have feelings.
On the way out, the receptionist hands me a card with my next appointment date and time already written out. There’s no back and forth about what might be convenient for you—you’re simply instructed when to show up. The saddest part of this set-up is the fact that I actually do.
I fork over my copay and squeeze through the waiting room to the exit. The tall woman is still regaling the room with unrequited stories. I take one last look before leaving, slamming the door behind me.
I like your post, your description of your awful doctor, the 7.5, all of it.
Thanks for the kind words! I rate them 9.5.