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Authors: Leigh Stein
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eyes without moving my head. I pretended I was a cat, stalking a bird.
“As far as mental illness goes you’re what we call a
lifer
,” he decided, and wrote something in my file that was too illegible to read from where I sat.
A lifer
. He made it sound like I was an alcoholic. Part of me resented that he couldsay something like that after knowing me for approximately six minutes; part of me worried that he was right: I would always be like this. The therapist I’d seen when I was ten worked in a cozy office with stain-resistant carpeting and an actual sandbox filled with G.I. Joes and plastic palm trees. There was a Newton’s Cradle on his desk. The metal balls hit each other hypnotically, incessantly, for no other reason other than that they could.
This one thought I suffered from hypochondria. He thought my brain tumor was psychosomatic. I was going to have to be direct.
“I need something for my anxiety. You know my mom. You know I’m legit.”
The doctor didn’t show any indication that he’d heard what I’d just said. He was busy writing. Attached to the front of my folder was a form with every possible diagnosis and a little space to put a check. It seemed overwhelming, the great number of things that could be wrong with me: “chronic indecision,” I imagined as one. “Hypochondria precipitated by general apathy towards life; crippling deficit in goal-setting.” I waited to see how many I’d have (
Tell her what she’s won, Doc!
), but he didn’t do anything with the form.
“Who is prescribing the medication you’re on now?”
“Her name is Dr. Libman. I was seeing her when I was in school, but it’s hard to make the drive up there now.”
“I’d like to run some blood work to rule out a thyroidcondition,” the doctor said, a propos of
rien
, “but I’ll write you a prescription for a small quantity of Ativan. For the anxiety. Come back in about a week for the lab results, and we can discuss your medication management then. I also think you should find someone to talk to. Sometimes we just need someone who will listen. Any other questions?”
I looked over my shoulder, to see if there were cue cards he was reading from. Nope. He’d memorized his lines.
“So you don’t think it’s AIDS?” It never hurt to be too sure.
He looked up from his prescription pad. “Do you have unprotected sex?”
Only with transsexual prostitutes
.
“No,” I said.
“Are you an intravenous drug user?”
“No.”
“Probably not, then,” he said, “unless you’ve been drinking breast milk lately,” and resumed writing, in even smaller handwriting, shielding the paper from my eyes with his arm like I had to be protected from my own diagnosis. Then he left the room with my chart.
When the technician took my blood, I watched her put the needle in my vein so I would know when to expect the pinch.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “He doesn’t think it’s AIDS.”
• • •
After my appointment, I drove to Walmart to fill my prescription.
Find someone to talk to. Pay someone to listen
. No more Dr. Libman. In the car, a Modest Mouse song came on 93XRT that went,
While we’re on the subject, could we change the subject now?
I brought a book inside to read while I waited, and held it in my lap so the cover wouldn’t show. The book was a gift from my mom called
Calling in “The One”:
7
Weeks to Attract the Love of Your Life
. I wasn’t sure what her hurry was. I’d never had a long-term boyfriend, so maybe she was holding the promise of one in front of my nose so I would just get my act together, fix myself.
Calling in “The One”
didn’t have any characters or plot. It just had Katherine Woodward Thomas, M.A., M.F.T., who wanted me to know that I would never find a soul mate until I let go of my past and lived from one fleeting moment to the next, like someone with Alzheimer’s.
Is that what you mean, Katherine? Like someone with Alzheimer’s?
It reminded me of a story by
“As far as mental illness goes you’re what we call a
lifer
,” he decided, and wrote something in my file that was too illegible to read from where I sat.
A lifer
. He made it sound like I was an alcoholic. Part of me resented that he couldsay something like that after knowing me for approximately six minutes; part of me worried that he was right: I would always be like this. The therapist I’d seen when I was ten worked in a cozy office with stain-resistant carpeting and an actual sandbox filled with G.I. Joes and plastic palm trees. There was a Newton’s Cradle on his desk. The metal balls hit each other hypnotically, incessantly, for no other reason other than that they could.
This one thought I suffered from hypochondria. He thought my brain tumor was psychosomatic. I was going to have to be direct.
“I need something for my anxiety. You know my mom. You know I’m legit.”
The doctor didn’t show any indication that he’d heard what I’d just said. He was busy writing. Attached to the front of my folder was a form with every possible diagnosis and a little space to put a check. It seemed overwhelming, the great number of things that could be wrong with me: “chronic indecision,” I imagined as one. “Hypochondria precipitated by general apathy towards life; crippling deficit in goal-setting.” I waited to see how many I’d have (
Tell her what she’s won, Doc!
), but he didn’t do anything with the form.
“Who is prescribing the medication you’re on now?”
“Her name is Dr. Libman. I was seeing her when I was in school, but it’s hard to make the drive up there now.”
“I’d like to run some blood work to rule out a thyroidcondition,” the doctor said, a propos of
rien
, “but I’ll write you a prescription for a small quantity of Ativan. For the anxiety. Come back in about a week for the lab results, and we can discuss your medication management then. I also think you should find someone to talk to. Sometimes we just need someone who will listen. Any other questions?”
I looked over my shoulder, to see if there were cue cards he was reading from. Nope. He’d memorized his lines.
“So you don’t think it’s AIDS?” It never hurt to be too sure.
He looked up from his prescription pad. “Do you have unprotected sex?”
Only with transsexual prostitutes
.
“No,” I said.
“Are you an intravenous drug user?”
“No.”
“Probably not, then,” he said, “unless you’ve been drinking breast milk lately,” and resumed writing, in even smaller handwriting, shielding the paper from my eyes with his arm like I had to be protected from my own diagnosis. Then he left the room with my chart.
When the technician took my blood, I watched her put the needle in my vein so I would know when to expect the pinch.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “He doesn’t think it’s AIDS.”
• • •
After my appointment, I drove to Walmart to fill my prescription.
Find someone to talk to. Pay someone to listen
. No more Dr. Libman. In the car, a Modest Mouse song came on 93XRT that went,
While we’re on the subject, could we change the subject now?
I brought a book inside to read while I waited, and held it in my lap so the cover wouldn’t show. The book was a gift from my mom called
Calling in “The One”:
7
Weeks to Attract the Love of Your Life
. I wasn’t sure what her hurry was. I’d never had a long-term boyfriend, so maybe she was holding the promise of one in front of my nose so I would just get my act together, fix myself.
Calling in “The One”
didn’t have any characters or plot. It just had Katherine Woodward Thomas, M.A., M.F.T., who wanted me to know that I would never find a soul mate until I let go of my past and lived from one fleeting moment to the next, like someone with Alzheimer’s.
Is that what you mean, Katherine? Like someone with Alzheimer’s?
It reminded me of a story by
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