The Discoverer of Penis Envy
I’m quite sure that most people would NEVER write a blog about visiting their psychiatrist.
Well, at least most sane, mentally stable individuals.
I’m not one of those people.
The truth is, I find the fact that I’m seeing a shrink absolutely hilarious! I know, mental health problems are no laughing matter, but if I don’t look at it with humor, then what have I got?
I wasn’t sure of what to expect when I made my first appointment. Privately I was hoping for Dr. Lowenstein from The Prince of Tides: great legs, leather couches, and good drugs. I even hoped to bump into a few celebrities in the waiting room.
No such luck. It was one of the most frightening days of my life.
I arrived at clinic fifteen minutes before my scheduled time, when I was informed by the receptionist that my appointment was not for another two hours.
All right, no big deal, I would just make myself comfortable in the waiting room, and continue reading my book: I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.
Right as I was making my way to the most hidden chair in the room, I hear a loud shriek, followed by yelling from directly behind me, “DON’T YOU DARE SEE HIM BEFORE YOU SEE ME!”
I turn around to see a deranged woman snarling at me, as if she is ready to bite. It was at the moment that I realized that this institution was not home to the wealthy, rich, and self-absorbed. When booking my appointment prior, I had no idea that my appointment was going to take place in a genuine nut house. All of a sudden The Prince of Tides had become Shock Corridor.
I sat pretending to concentrate on my book while the deranged bitch continued growling at me. I did not even dare to attempt eye contact, and I really hoped that the doctors would apprehend this woman soon. After about five minutes, they finally took her away. As she followed the doctors, never once did she take her contumelious gaze off of me.
With the snarling woman taken away, I had the entire waiting room to myself. I even read a couple of chapters, and did my best to numb my anxiety over seeing a psychiatrist.
The peace did not last long.
Just like ants swarm a grounded lollipop, the room filled to its capacity. I sat as still as I could, and did my best to become invisible.
There is really not much to do when you are trying to be invisible, but eavesdrop. I swear I’m not a nosy person, but this situation was a bit different. I worried over what I was getting myself into.
Apparently, the group that had just entered the room, was from a local hospital, attending group therapy at this institution.
Woman 1: “Woman 2, are you still having problems with your boyfriend?”
Woman 2: “Shut the fuck up.”
Man: “STOP TALKING THAT WAY!”
Woman 2: “Shut the fuck up.”
Woman 1: “Man, tell your mother that I love her, and can’t wait to see her again.”
Man: “My mother doesn’t like fruit anymore.”
Woman 1: “Your mother has the kindest soul of anyone I’ve ever met!”
Man: “I don’t think you know my mom. Did she call you or something?”
Woman 2: “Shut the fuck up.”
Man: “She told me I can’t keep apples in the house.”
Woman 1: “Well, tell your mother I hope she feels better, and I won’t be able to come over to give you a bubble bath until Tuesday.”
*Visual image. Complete horror. I must see a doctor very soon.*
Man: “No bath today? I NEED A BATH!”
Woman 2: “Shut the fuck up.”
Man: “But my ears are dirty!”
Woman 1: “Tell your mother I’ll come over and give you a bubble bath on Tuesday night. I’m all out of bubbles and won’t be able to buy more until Tuesday.
Man: (begins to weep)
Woman 2: “Shut the fuck up.”
It was at this moment I seriously contemplated running out of the clinic and never returning. It was obvious that I had come to the wrong place. The last thing I wanted was to end up like the rest of this bunch.
Eventually the van from the hospital came to pick up the group, and I was left with enough peace to contemplate my own sanity. “So what if I’m an insomniac suffering from panic attacks? I’m sure as hell not crazy!”
At that moment the receptionist informed me that Dr. Spock was finishing up with his current patient, and should be able to see me soon.
All right, I had made it this far, I might as well stick it through and wait for the good doctor to tell me how sane, and normal I am.
At this point, I was too shaken-up to read, and just sat quietly.
Ten minutes, passed and I was still sitting quietly.
Still, no Dr. Spock.
Suddenly a woman comes blowing through the door, with several handbags, and a child in tow. I couldn’t help but look. This woman looked exactly like Dee Snider, and I’m not kidding! Imagine someone applying clay to their face, waiting hours for the clay to solidify, and then decorating the rest of their face with permanent markers, rather poorly. And yes, the haircut was exactly like Dee Snider too, except for the fact that it was bright orange.
I think to myself that this Lady Snider is definitely in need of some therapy. I felt for Baby Snider, for him being taught the ways of the world from a woman that looked bonkers. I was glad that Lady Snider was getting some counseling, for the child’s sake.
But I was wrong. Entirely wrong.
Lady Snider wasn’t there for herself. She was there for Baby Snider. In my opinion, Baby Snider was behaving like a perfectly calm child.
For whatever reason, Lady Snider felt the need to read aloud all the questions and answers from the paperwork she was filling out. Before long I knew the entire Snider family history, in detail. I still couldn’t get over the fact that this woman was there for her child, and not herself.
Suddenly, something in the paperwork she was reading aloud triggered something in Baby Snider. She read aloud a question, “What is your family religion?”
Personally, I left that question blank when filling out the paperwork.
Lady Snider reads aloud her answer, “Well, your father is Greek, for now, and I’m Jewish. You’ll be Jewish soon enough, but I’ll just fill in Greek and Jewish.”
Call me crazy, but is just being Greek a religion?
Baby Snider begins screaming and thrashing his body around his chair. “NO! ONE RELIGION! ONLY ONE! IT’S MY CHOICE!”
I was shocked. Obviously this kid was quite smart. He was only five years of age, and already approaching religious controversy with trepidation.
Lady Snider then questioned Baby Snider, “Sweetheart, what religion would you like to be?”
The kid never answered. He ran around the room tearing all the leaves off the potted plants, ripping them to shreds, and throwing them on the floor.
My opinion was wrong. Perhaps this kid was in serious need of psychiatric help, or perhaps terrified of organized religion.
He then sat indian-style on the ground while tearing pages from all the magazines on the table as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his mouth was swearing in gibberish, or possibly holy tongues.
At this moment I became terrified of the demon-child, and went straight to the receptionist. “Look. It’s been more than two hours now!” I said, “If Dr. Spock won’t see me now, I’M LEAVING!”
The receptionist glared at me with annoyed eyes, “Listen young man. You are going to have to calm down! I’ll be forced to call security.”
I considered my options. My basic instinct was to strangle this crazy woman, but I could see myself being locked up in an asylum forever, crying, while watching old-school Winona Ryder movies.
I sat back down. Even though I wasn’t one of these crazy people, I certainly did not want to end up in a restraint jacket.
Someone entered the room, and removed Lady and Baby Snider.
While sitting in peace, a man of seventy entered the room. “Are you Brian?” he asked, “I’m Doctor Spock, I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
You see. The restrooms were adjacent to the waiting room. Dr. Spock hauled ass into the men’s room.
Because I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, I really hoped that Dr. Spock just had to urinate, rather than defecate.
He took a very long time. Long enough for a final crazy-person-encounter.
Just when I thought my psychological torture was over, a man walked in. Yes, a man walked in, and he was carrying a rubber duckie.
I am not lying.
His name was John, and he was a rather friendly guy. Everyone in the place knew him.
While I was waiting for Dr. Spock, John walked my direction and showed me his rubber duckie. I’ll have to admit that I was fond of this guy for some reason. He appeared to be a loving, sweet child, trapped in a grown-man’s body.
So I humored him. He was a wonderful refreshment after all the individuals I just encountered.
We talked about his duckie, the duckie’s history, the duckie’s fears, and he even let me hold the duckie for a few seconds. However, after just a few seconds he ripped the duckie from my hands. I think he was dealing with seperation-anxiety issues. But I liked the guy, and wasn’t offended.
At that moment Dr. Spock returned from the bathroom, and immediately ended my interaction with John. He did not look pleased. Obviously I am not a licensed health professional. Therefore, I had no business talking with anyone about their rubber duckies.
“Hi Brian, I’m Dr. Spock, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He shook my hand. I did not want him to shake my hand. He came from the men’s room. He was there for a long time. I didn’t know where that hand had been, nor did I want too.
I followed Dr. Spock down the hall, to his office. The office was not what I expected. There wasn’t one single spot to lie down! No leather, no pictures of Sigmund Freud on the wall. It was at this point that I actually began to have a panic attack. The office was dark, and scary, and this man was going to scrape the walls of my mind.
I chose an uncomfortable chair in the middle of the room, but Dr. Spock motioned for me to come closer, and sit right next to him.
If you’ve read my blogs before, you know I’m not comfortable when strangers force me to get close to them. But I did anyway, figuring it had something to do with the therapy.
Dr. Spock began asking me some rather random questions, which I answered quickly with my arms folded across my chest. I was starting to get angry. What was this bozo doing trying to pry into my private life?
Something he did must have worked. I felt tricked. Within minutes I was telling this man every single detail of my personal life, and it felt great! I have never run my mouth to that extent. I told him everything, including things I did not even know myself.
There was one thing that was still making me uncomfortable, and that was Dr. Spock’s lazy eye. His eyes were looking into two different directions, and I didn’t know which eyeball to make contact with.
But he seemed to see me clearly.
So the hour was almost over and Dr. Spock asked me, “How are your erections?”
Half of me wondered if this dude was hitting on me, the other half wondered if my erections had something to do with my insomnia.
“I know it’s an uncomfortable question,” he asked, “but for males, their erections have a lot to do with their emotional well-being.”
“My erections are just fine,” I replied, “I’m rather fond of them.”
I began to sweat. All this penis talk was really making me feel rather cumbersome.
“I’m only asking, because if we consider medication, it may affect your erections and ejaculation.”
I wanted to punch him. How dare he talk about MY penis! I immediately begin to wonder if he had a version of old-man “penis envy.”
He goes on to tell me that “happy” pills have sexual side effects, such as erectile dysfunctions. I tell him there is no way I would ever take ANY pill that wouldn’t keep my Lil BriGuy happy.
He tells me there is one alternative, and proceeds to write multiple prescriptions. I’ve always been skeptical of pharmaceutical drugs and doctors. I’ve heard some horror stories.
He informs me that there is one “happy” pill that does not cause sexual side effects, and it may even help me to quit smoking. My eyes dart back-and-forth between his mismated eyeballs.
So I left with a few prescriptions in hand, which I distrust. Amazingly, after the session I felt a hundred times better than I had felt in a long time! Maybe there is something to this whole therapy thing. I made an appointment with Dr. Spock next month, and set up counseling sessions until then with a resident psychologist.
Anyway, I filled the prescriptions, and went home to research the side effects over the internet. One side effect is short-term memory loss. In that case I’m not sure the drugs are working, because I still remember every single terrifying detail from that day.