REAL GONE: MED MUSIC

The doctor’s appointment hung over me for over a month. I had always struggled with highs and lows but since the first time I visited a psychologist my senior year in high school, I had a distrust of these witch doctors who could cure the mind.

When I was 17 or 18, when my parents were finally fed up with my frequent mood swings, I visited a psychologist. She was a broad-shouldered fifty-something with hairstyle that was too old for her age. She reminded me of my kindergarten teacher, who had an involuntary eye tick, minus the pleasantness of a kindergarten teacher. My first kiss was in kindergarten. A short-haired girl named Crystal pushed me into a concrete cylinder and gave me a kiss on the forehead. I never believed in cooties and if I did, I subconsciously sought them after that moment.

The psychologist’s greeting to me was no bullshit. “I want to prescribe you some mood medicine from the outset so that as we work through your problems, your highs and lows are more evenly metered.”

She had not even heard a word from me before she wanted to make me some kind of zombie.

I smirked, said, “Fuck that, fuck you, see you later,” and walked out.

My mom was still in the parking lot as I left. I don’t know if my parents were obligated to pay for that session but if I found out that they did, I’m sure I’d be thrown into a major guilt-ridden episode. I couldn’t cope with guilt and it still is something I struggle with. I still feel guilty when I think about the time I was in second grade and my mom gave my brother and me money to buy each other “Candy grams” for some holiday so that we wouldn’t be left out of the delivery process when everyone was getting these deliveries during school hours, so that all the other kids could see how popular some of us were. My brother was left out because I just bought one for myself and he bought one for me. They were bunny shaped lollipops, so I’m sure the holiday was Easter.

To deal with this anger over the psychologist prescribing me something before even attempting to get to know me, I did what any angsty teenager with a band would do. I wrote a song called, “Gotta Pill,” even though I never got said pill. My thoughts toward medicating became almost Scientologist. I was against the whole industry even as I self-medicated with alcohol and marijuana throughout college and later, a flirtation with college Christian fundamentalism (didn’t last long, thank “god.”)

But after moving to Texas a year and a few months and being completely stripped away of my social circle, and never being so great in social situations and meeting new people, I knew something had to change. I picked up smoking out of the sheer boredom of not knowing anybody and when I smoked at bars occasionally people would come up to me and ask for a cigarette or a light. It was a means of human contact and I was grateful for as little as I got.

I made the appointment during my lowest of lows in Texas, when I couldn’t even get out of bed before noon. I’d wake up at 7am.  Sure, but I’d stare at the ceiling dreading whatever was ahead of me that day. Something really needed to change.

I was greeted by a stale waiting room decorated with Christian sayings; doctors followed in their Messiah’s footsteps by healing the Cardiomyopathic, the Depressed, and the Fibromyalgic (see Luke 12:50). The receptionist hid behind textured glass; I couldn’t see her at first as nothing more than a dark blob behind it. I didn’t know if she could see me and I felt rude knocking on it. It was obviously designed to say, “We’ll get to you when we see you, asshole. Take a seat and read some Highlights magazines.”

I filled out paperwork and waited.

Forty minutes later, a nurse with a Longhorns scarf came to the waiting room and called my name. She was pleasant and told me to not hold my book when she weighed me. “We don’t want any extra weight!” she smiled and I thought about emptying my pockets because I knew my cellphone, my over-keyed key ring, and my wallet stuffed with receipts weighed much more than my book but I kept quiet assuming she expected this weight in somebody’s pockets.

When the doc showed up in my room, he had a haircut that looked like he moonlighted as a synth player in some German band from the 80s. It was brushed to the side and hung too long on his face for somebody his age, let alone a doc. He also had a Dr. Strangelove smile every time he asked me questions. He was nice enough and didn’t push Jesus on me. He must let his nurses decorate his waiting room.

I laid out my concerns about mood regulating medicine. I don’t want to be a zombie. I have a bad memory as it is, I don’t need it any worse. I have a negative, self-deprecating sense of humor that I don’t want to lose in the name of happiness. I told him that I like to feel the whole spectrum of things because I feel that’s a part of living. He prescribed me something to try out. “One pill at bedtime every day,” he said.

So here I wait patiently for bedtime and the morning’s “new” me.

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Andrew Hilbert is a recently displaced Southern Californian living in San Antonio, TX. He will be sharing the adventures he encounters in his new habitat via his column Real Gone (to be published monthly on the second Monday of each month here on intraffik.com) He still wears his Dodgers hat and argues passionately against Spurs fans. He is one of three founders of art/poetry magazine Beggars & Cheeseburgers. One day he will own a llama or three.

Sep 14, 2011 | Categories: Life | Tags: Andrew Hilbert, medication, Psychiatrists, Real Gone, San Antonio, Texas | Leave A Comment »