The Dark-Eyed Mistress of Sweet, Sweet Pain (jenni_the_odd) wrote,
The Dark-Eyed Mistress of Sweet, Sweet Pain
jenni_the_odd

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My Visit To A Therapist

Mkay. Made it to the building, navigated the Hallways of the Damned*, found the office, sat in waiting room. Filled out forms. Sat some more.
Called in by a gray-haired man with a pleasant voice. His office is at the end of the hall, containing several chairs and a couch. I sit on the end of the couch. He has about six live plants and one fake one**. One of these plants has its roots in a bowl holding a very pretty blue and purplish betta. I look at the fishy.
Asked basic things about my family, am I close to my parents (not really, I love them, they love me, we generally leave it at that), am I the oldest (yes), what was it like growing up in my household (wacky). Doctor scribbles, I look at the fishy.
Fill out several sheets consisting of questions I have answered on more "what the fuck is wrong with your head?" online quizzes than I can count. Though to be truthful, in many cases the online questions were more in-depth. Found myself frustrated because often one extreme response is applicable either at the same time or alternating with the other extreme response. Told to fill out what is closest to how I feel at the moment. Sheets are assessed. I watch the fishy.
Answer yes-or-no questions. Find it difficult to take the serious doctor-scribbling as seriously as I probably should, seeing as how the scribbling is being done on a screaming electric green clipboard that makes the doctor look as though someone attacked him with a highlighter when the light shines through part of it onto his shirt.
Doctor makes "Hmmm." face. I look at the fishy.
More questions, multiple-choice. Am tempted to ask whether next time I ought to bring a scantron. Decide not to be a smartass and simply answer the questions. Fishy hides behind the plant. Come back, fishy!
Diagnosis: severe depression and a bit of OCD. Those of you who knew this already, please leave a comment saying "I told you so", as well as your address so that I might go to your house and beat you with a stick. This is merely because I hate being told I am wrong***, and I promise not to hit you too hard****. Doctor suggests I take the Lexapro and make another appointment. I bristle at the former, but can't really think of an argument beyond "I don't wanna", and thus keep my mouth shut. I cooperate with the latter, because he seems nice enough and I like his fish*****.
I am then given a sheet to fill out with instructions that make me want to shoot someone. I get the impression that this is a load of bullshit, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I will be calling and cancelling that next appointment later today.

*This would be an entire half of a floor consisting of doors that had signs written in black marker (or dried blood, possibly) saying "PRIVATE" and/or "DO NOT ENTER" taped to them. I suspect alien experiments or satanic rituals of some sort.

**Apparently the stress of watering seven plants is just a bit too much. Six live plants and one fake one allows for that cheery "jungle adventure" atmosphere without compromising his plant-watering abilities. I was hard-pressed not to hum "one of these things is not like the others" while examining the shrubbery from my spot on the couch.

***I still do not believe I am necessarily wrong about the fact that there isn't anything really wrong with me.

****Except for pussinboots, who will get hit with a stick regardless of the commenting, because I'm sure he'd like it. :D

*****Shut up; watching fish is very soothing. And it was a very pretty fish.
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  • 21 comments

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