Where Do I Find These People?

I’ve been to a good number of shrinks in my day, but I can honestly say I had the strangest psychiatrist appointments today ever.

Walking into the office felt instantly strange — musty and old, full of memories and secrets — like walking into someone else’s grandparent’s house. It was, in fact, a converted house. The strange room configuration and oddly placed closets made that clear. The furniture was a mish-mash of pieces from the ’50s – ’80s. Leather couch mixed with cheap wooden chairs. Weird Southwest-themed cattle skulls and a Native American-style rug hanging from a rod on the wall. Dozens of copies of “The Economist” on the table. The lights were dingy florescent. The carpet was a cheap, one-ply deal that was better suited for a pawn shop.

There were two women in the waiting room. One was a heavy-set lady in a wheelchair who refused to wheel away from the receptionist’s window so I could check in. The other woman was having a highly personal phone conversation about her late grandfather’s estate. Her crazy aunt was causing problems, god forbid the grandchildren get a dime more than she does, and to call her Uncle Dave to find a Florida estate lawyer.

Immediately, I’m texting Chris.

“there is a woman having an extremely private conversation in the waiting room.”

The receptionist made her way out from some back room and gave me papers to fill out. She probably qualified as a giant and she was old. The paperwork was riddled with grammatical errors. The questions were bizarre. One of the questions was, “Do we have your word that you will call us if you plan to kill yourself or someone else?”

I get called back to the doctor’s office. Generally, psychiatrists’ offices are stately rooms with huge, wooden desks and boating decor. This office — excuse me, large closet — didn’t even have a window. Oddly, one wall was covered in the cheap rug material. There were two folding chairs and one incredibly dirty stuffed leather chair. Piles of papers covered a desk butted up against the wall.

The doctor, who I will call Dr. Fail, was ancient. The photo I found of him online was easily 30 years old, back when he had brown hair. Now, it was shocking white, his face deeply etched with age. He was seated on an old office chair, his ass perched atop a pillow — presumably to make him appear taller and/or soothe his ‘roids.

The chair was behind — I shit you not — a TV tray perpendicular to the desk. On the tray was my newly created file and a portable blood pressure cuff. He explained that he had another patient that needed his blood pressure monitored hourly. Weird, I thought, but figured maybe the guy was on some new medication or something.

We started the interview. He asked about all of my symptoms. I told him my feelings as well as the side effects I’ve been having from Zoloft. A few minutes into the interview, the receptionist knocks on the door. “Sasha needs his blood pressure reading.”

Ugh. Seriously? I’ve never had a psychiatric appointment interrupted before. But I guess Sasha really needed to be monitored. “Should I leave?” I asked. “No, just take another seat,” said Dr. Fail.

Um. Okay.

Some THUG-ASS DUDE walks in the office. Wife beater. Sagging pants. Gold chains. Tattoos. Skinny. I instantly felt something off about him and got uncomfortable. The receptionist thankfully asked me to leave the room. I took my purse so I could text Chris. Also, because I did not trust Sasha.

“weird shrink experience so far. i feel like i’m in some parallel universe.”

Sasha leaves Dr. Fail’s office. I get called back in. We continue with the interview. The doctor now has a big volume of a nurse’s drug reference guide, looking for medications that are compatible with nursing. Obviously, this is not going well, as he was basically running down the list of any and all meds he could think of and seeing if they were okay for lactating women.

Instead of, you know, trying to diagnose me and then finding a good fit for my issues.

Unbelievably, the receptionist knocks on the door again, this time in a panic. “Dr. Fail! Dr. Fail! Sasha’s in the bathroom and won’t open the door and isn’t responding!”

Oh snap!

Dr. Fail creaks out from behind his TV tray and shuffles off to the bathroom. He pounds on the bathroom door. “Sasha! It’s Dr. Fail! Open the door! Sasha! Open the door!”

They test the knob. It’s not locked. They open the door.

Sasha is gone.

“Oh my god, he’s escaped through the bathroom window!”

He has escaped through the bathroom window!

There was some commotion in the office while they looked around for him, but he was long gone. Dr. Fail comes back to the office, chuckling, and says, “That man was in narcotics detox. Looks like he’s gotten away.”

Now I’m thinking:

1. I realize I’m severely sleep deprived and in a Zoloft-induced haze, but DAMN! This is like an episode of Cops!
2. CAN I GET A POLICE ESCORT TO MY CAR PLEASE.

We continue with the interview. I tell Dr. Fail that, based on my own research and my OB’s recommendation, I felt better about continuing with Zoloft until I wean the girls, even if it means I barely get any sleep for the next few months. He agreed to continue with this course and see me again in four weeks to evaluate how I’m doing with the side effects.

Don’t hold your breath, Doc. I love a good story, but I really don’t need to get mugged outside of my shrink’s office by an escaped dope fiend.