The triage therapist called me back less than an hour after I'd called the HMO's information line to ask whether my plan covered therapy. Oh yes, she said, up to twenty sessions per year, for a co-pay of $10. That's fine, I said, I'll take it, and I thought, I don't know what Michael Moore is complaining about. So far, this HMO system was working just fine, thank you. She, the triage therapist, asked me a few questions then booked an appointment for me with a clinical psychologist with the improbablename of Dr. Sloane Payne.
I was fifteen minutes into my session with Dr. Payne when he said to me, it sounds like you may have some abandonment issues. Holy crap! And I hadn't even told him, yet, how I'd called my salon the other day and was informed that
my hairdresser, Sam, had left. Maybe he knew something was up because of my roots.
I told him about Jack. Just the highlights. That we've known each other since 1991. That it's complicated.
What he said to me, that day at the beach.
There may have been some crying. That Dr Payne, he's so emotional! He said, are you sure it's over? Which is exactly the wrong thing to say to someone like me. Someone who
never knows when to give up.
He asked whether I'd ever been on medication for depression. I said no, and added, I'm not so sure I'm depressed. He almost laughed at me. Oh, you're depressed, all right, he assured me. Then he shocked me. I don't mean literally, with electricity, but with what he said next: I think you should try it. This, maybe twenty minutes after meeting me.
I say, with all due respect, I don't think you know me well enough to drug me. I say, I am not in agreement, philosophically speaking, to taking drugs to solve my problems. I say, I don't want to take drugs unless it's absolutely necessary, and you're going to need more than one session with me to convince me that it is.
I don't say,
what is it with you fucking Americans, pushing drugs as a cure for everything? I'm so sick of all your fucking television commercials pushing drugs, pushing people to "ask their doctor about miracle drug X": ads for drugs to reduce cholesterol, ads for drugs to reduce your chances of succumbing to a heart attack, ads for drugs to reduce the risk of osteoporosis. Yeah, cutting back on fatty foods, losing weight, and eating more broccoli are tough. Easier to pop a pill. Did you people learn nothing from thalidomide?
I tell him about the
Lorazepam. How I don't like the way it makes me feel, and how I only take it when I need to feel that way. Like when I have to bury my mother twice in the same week, or when
everything I believe is blown to pieces, or when I go to a medical doctor who needs to poke me with a metal implement. In those cases, I want to be so mellow I can't move.
He asks why I came. What I want. I tell him I want someone to listen to me, someone who's shoulder I can cry on. Because I know that no matter how great your friends are, there is a limit to how long they'll listen to you whine about shit, and it's a lot shorter than you think. I don't want to be that girl, you know, the one who's always whining to her friends about men who done her wrong. I don't want to cry in front of anyone. I fucking
hate to cry. But I need to whine, and I need to cry a little, so I want to do it to someone who gets paid to listen to me do it.
He suggests group therapy. I say, I can't express to you how uninterested in that I am, but I'll try: no way, I'd rather shove fiery hot pokers into my eyes. Why not, he says. Keep an open mind, he says. Don't be so rigid, he says.
But I
am rigid, I say. And judgmental. And though I would lasso the moon for a friend, I couldn't care less about the problems of strangers, and have no interest in listening to them talk about them. But you might be able to learn something from them, he says. I say, that's what I want to see you for. A professional.
We talk some more and eventually he says, I'm going to change my opinion, I don't think drugs are the answer for you, and maybe group therapy isn't what you need, either. You seem to be a very intelligent person, and I think you sincerely want to change your behaviour. I think you're a good candidate for individual therapy.
Great, I say. I think I like you, too.
But oh, by the way, he says, he can't take me as a patient. He tells me, the HMO doesn't cover individual therapy, and didn't the triage therapist explain that to me? I get only this one appointment with him, then he writes a quickie diagnosis and it's on to the next patient that he'll never see again. He tells me, all he can do for me is prescribe drugs, or put me in a group.
No, the triage therapist did not explain that to me, yet all of a sudden, the American health care system was a lot less
mysterious.
Labels: Americana, Jack, life in California
"I want to go where you're going," said the Trader Joe's employee who was just coming in as I was going out, carrying a wine box loaded with Warsteiner and Bitburger.
