Friday, February 13, 2015

Afterwards.

It’s taken me a few days to get around to writing about my experience on Wednesday, since after the nearly 2-hour session I had a headache from talking so much.

I was pleasantly surprised by the whole experience.

I expected Dr. Singh and his team to be older, and well, shitty. They weren't. Dr. Singh seemed pretty young, maybe late 30’s, and his students were two early 30-ish folks, one male, one female. The conversations went well, they were receptive and seemed to be actively listening and engaged in trying to figure me out.

Apparently this will lead to a report that they will then give to my doctor. I spoke to a friend about it, and she said I should ask for a copy of the report (this hadn't occurred to me). We’ll see. I have an appointment with my doctor at the end of the month, it’ll be interesting.

Like I said, I left the session with a huge headache, it was just intense. It’s like running a sprint, but emotionally and intellectually. It's just so much talking, so much reflection.

I always find it so intense when you’re expected to recite your history. Your medical history. Your social history. I have such a bad memory for time lines and dates - it just seems like such a jumble. It also means sometimes really thinking about these things, when maybe you haven't - ever.

The entire day was odd - I should have started with that. The taxi drive over involved an aggressive cabby who asked a lot of personal questions in a pretty aggressive tone. Including gems like, “Why are you going to the hospital?” and “Are you married?”

Once I got there, the tiny hospital was a bit of a surprise. I made my way to the psychiatric floor - something I hadn't prepared myself for. Seeing folks in pyjamas with bandages on their wrists is very - pulling.

The waiting room was an exercise in staying calm and avoiding eye contact. This one person was just an avalanche of inappropriate comments and invasive questioning. 

A: Why’d you buy a coffee?
X: Um, because I wanted one.
A: Women always buy coffee.
X: That’s not true, guys like coffee shops too.
A: Then they’re gay.

I would read the person (A) as gay, so this was actually cute. But then stuff got progressively weirder.

A: You’re standing and leaning on the wall like you’re from the 1920’s.
Y: Oh….?
A: It’s good for your back. Stay there.

Anyway, it was just constant. There’s something about people with little or no filters - about how they could say anything at any time that’s just terrifying. Especially true things. Can they see everything that’s wrong with me? Why wouldn't they, isn't it obvious? What if they just rip me apart?

As if any of it is worse than the fear of what I really am.

Maybe he'd look at me, and see all of my flaws and just shower me with them. That's the fear. He'd list them, my shortcomings. My disgusting nature. Accuse me of my worst parts.

And then I'd be exposed. A raw nerve. An unclothed, grotesque body. To be pointed at, and ridiculed. To be jeered with revulsion.

That is the voice inside my head.






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