I’m learning more than I expected about the psychiatric industry these last few weeks, what with being bounced in an apparent panic from doctor to doctor, each of whom has had an obvious favourite historical shrink with accompanying theories. Today I had Dr. G, who seems to think my head is a mess because of my life history. And I can’t tell him he’s wrong. I can’t tell any of them they’re wrong. If I could, I would know what the problem is, and would therefore not be seeing these doctors at all. Sort of a catch-22 there.

Your father, you inherited brain troubles from your father. No, I don’t think so - he’s never been diagnosed with anything, and he’s seen three dozen doctors already. They’d have picked something up. Then these friends who died. That’s it. No, I mourned them and moved on. How many times have you hit your head severely enough to lose consciousness? Three. Then that’s it, that must be it. No, I was hearing things prior to the Concussion Series, thanks. Street drugs! You must have overdosed on some ugly street drug sold to you by a smiling creep in a trenchcoat and had a permanent psychotic reaction. I’ve never tried street drugs. Ah, so it’s obviously the boyfriend then. I’m single. Well, then that’s it. I’m depressed because I’m single? Yes, yes, that must be it. Or he beat you. Who beat me? Your ex-boyfriend, the one you were with for five years, he beat you. He never raised his voice to me, let alone his hand. Aha! Well, then it must have been the lack of stimulation. Um, I think you might be going off on a tangent here. Tangent… tangent… tangerine… orange… a clockwork orange. Do you read disturbing books? It depends on who’s judging them as disturbing. What was the last book you read? Kingsley Amis’ memoirs. Did your parents abuse you? No. Ah, so they neglected you. How did they react when you first moved out? Well, they weren’t thrilled exactly. But they helped me pack the van and they drove seven hours to set me up. All right, all right… alcohol. Do you often drink alone? Uh, I drink socially. Usually at parties or when I go out to eat with friends. Aha! Hedonism Syndrome. And so on these occasions, you drink to excess, you feel detached from yourself, you pretend you’re someone else. No. You want to get a sense of otherness. Of being other. No. And when you were a child, you played games like that - always pretend, always putting on a voice, switching from character to character. Well, my best friend and I did play a bit of that when we were kids, sure. Aha! The best friend, the one who’s ‘a homosexual’. You’re depressed because he’s ‘a homosexual.’ No, I’m fine with it. No, no, you’re not, you’re not really, you’re terribly depressed. Well, my other best friend from when I was a kid turned out to be gay too, and I’m fine with that. Fine then, it was the lack of grandparents. What? You said all of your grandparents are dead. That must be it. No, I don’t think so. Music, it has to be music. What was the last live concert you attended? Um, I went to see Handel’s Messiah a few weeks ago. Yes, yes, you desire to hear messages of sadness and despair! Uh, the Messiah ends with Jesus’ resurrection and the promise of eternal life for his followers. It’s the single most inspirational choral work ever produced in the English language. School. You were doing poorly in school. I graduated with First Class Distinction. Ah, so you say, but in grade school… your grades were dismal, were they not? No. So it must have been religion. Oh, drop dead.

All I got out of today’s session was a dirty look and a directive to double the drug that I’m currently taking (from 15 mg to the full 30 mg). Boo-urns. That’s what I get for going along with these maniacs. On the other hand, now I won’t have to spend five minutes cursing every other night because the fucking pills won’t split evenly. So that’s a net gain, I guess.

I meant to write this one last time I was in St. Albert, near the end of November, but forgot. Anyway, it’s still topical (i.e. seasonal). Overheard in the bathroom I share with my brother:

Al: Blaugh! What’s that?

Me: Um, it’s called ’soap.’ You may have heard of it.

Al: Yeah right. It doesn’t look like soap.

Me: What does it look like then, smart guy?

Al: Gumby’s headless, limbless twin brother.

Me: Oh, thanks for that. Thanks very much. Now I’ll never be able to use it again.

Al: You’re very welcome.

Though I unfortunately just read the fine print and you can’t bring them into Canada.

Bah, humbug.

The Times: “The shy jerboa is filmed for the first time.”

Me: “Why the hell do I already know what a jerboa looks like?!”

(Spends two minutes rifling through book collection)

“Aha!”

Nursery rhymes strike again. Pardon the poor scanning job, but isn’t that the cutest illo ever?

I also find it a little weird that the jerboa is about to go extinct. I had expected it to be abundant - like deer are over here - since why else would anyone put it in a child’s nursery book to teach kids to remember the letter ‘J’, if it wasn’t pretty commonplace? Maybe it was just a lack of animals that start with ‘J’? (But then why not a jaguar or a, or a… what else is there… a jackal or something?)

Before I run out the door for games night, can I quickly ask whether anyone knows a term for ‘cock-blocked’ that applies to women? We don’t get blue balls or anything like that. Blue… ovaries?

I’m just saying, I had a good chat with somebody the other day about the dry spell, and we both signed off laughing, but while it’s still funny now, how much longer till it’s not funny? Is there, like, a physiological requirement for the nasty once in a while?

Because I signed up for (wow, even I can tell I’m rambling here, and going on parentheses-attack, but this is how I think and write so bear with me, I don’t feel like going back to edit this later) a dating website a little while ago and so far have been contacted by the usual suspects, to whit:

Perverts
Losers
Whales
Retards
Assholes
Virgins
Dullards
Vagrants, and
Idiots

Which leads me to suspect that they’re all on the site because they can’t Get Any, and that must mean that I’m on the site because I can’t Get Any Either, and doesn’t that mean that I too fall into one of the above categories? Because like likes like? Ergo, none of us deserve to do the deed ever again?

Ugh, I think I’m giving this too much headspace.

I can’t wait till this drug starts suppressing my libido.

All right already, I’ll take the damn drugs.

But the very nice doctor this morning (I love you nice doctor! I even love your clunky, ugly shoes I couldn’t stop staring at! I kiss gratefully your prescription pad!) said she was ruling out the inpatient program based specifically on my having quit the job of death! I said, “Isn’t it a matter of stress levels?” and she said, quite coolly, “From what you haff told me, I suspect that you vill find being unemployed far less stressful zan copingk vith your hideously stressful job.” She also said for some people, the very definition of ‘depression’ is that you can’t cope with anything no matter how many resources you’re given. That sounds about right, actually, and I’ve heard that before.

A lot of the other stuff she said had me muttering asides under my breath - how this drug won’t affect my libido too badly (”Hah! Yeah, great, my dry spell will be thrilled to hear that, did I mention the one-year anniversary is coming up? My dry spell and I were thinking of going out to dinner to celebrate”), how I simply must get back to the gym (”Oh, hah, as if I’m going to shave my legs just to go to the damn gym”), how I shouldn’t be spending too much time alone (”How’m I supposed to be all naked and crazy if I’m not alone?”), and how I should go through my journals to find things that used to make me happy and try them again, even if I don’t feel it now.

“Wha?”
“Happy.”
“H…”
“Happy. You know. The emotion.”
“Wha?”

When I left the doctor’s I went to Safeway to fill the prescription, and thinking robotically Happy, happy, happy, I went to The Holy Grill (O hallowed vale of deliciousness!) and was confronted by the three hot owners sexily slicing capicollo, opening a huge tin of artichoke hearts, and cleaning the grill. And I felt a short thrill of something… I don’t know if it was actual happiness or just my befuddled libido giving one last sick lurch before it dies completely.

Hot Guy #1: “Haven’t seen you in here for a while! Hey, check out the rosy cheeks on this one, eh?”
Hot Guy #2: “Awww! Lookit that.”
Hot Guy #1: “What can I getcha, honey?”
Me: “You, lightly-grilled on a bed of radicchio.”
Hot Guy #1: “Beg pardon?”
Me: “Christ! Sorry. I meant, ho, varlet, fetch me at once your inestimably delicious Mr. Chicken panini and a side order of sweet potato chips, heavy on the rosemary, to go: for many miles remain in my quest.”

Hot Guy #1 forced a cup of green tea with honey on me, “No, it’s on us, ‘cos it’s so damn cold outside,” and I sat there drinking it and swinging my feet in the booth and feeling a bit less sick and disoriented than usual. So that was kind of nice. I wanted to thank them for being part of my recovery from this low (and I want to thank everybody else I haven’t already thanked, for being supportive and patient and buying me lots of cocktails - B.G. Rob! - and offering your ideas and affirmations and love).

So we’ve got the drugs. We’ve got a steady psychiatrist. We’ve got three months of health coverage and we’ve got Handel’s Messiah this Saturday and lots of clean underwear. This ‘depression’? I am going to fucking headbutt it right in the face until it dies from it. And I shall shout Batman-like sound effects while doing so.

(This is a small pachycephalosaur that I drew in my ENCS 475 class and didn’t get to finish, but I imagine he’d make similar noises while headbutting much larger things than himself, which is what I feel like I’m doing.)