All Booked Up
Yesterday afternoon, while I was in meetings, my wife left the names and numbers of two doctors on my voice mail. I don’t know whether to call them doctors, or therapists, or psychiatrists. One of them referred to herself as a counselor, which always reminds me of the perfectly useless “guidance” counselors in my old high school.
I can’t shake the impression that a counselor is someone who shows no interest in the fate of fellow human beings, unless they are an athlete with schools lined up to dole out athletics scholarships.
The word “counselor” also reminds me of those laconic students assigned to me in lieu of an adviser, during my first two undergraduate years at the state university. My student “counselor” always sat in a metal folding chair at the end of a hallway down which stretched a long line of students waiting for her signature on a registration form. Don’t ask her any questions, please. Just let her sign her name so we can all get the hell out of here.
I have a long-standing dislike of counselors.
Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may be, the one who calls herself a “counselor” is all booked up. She’s not accepting any new patients. She gives me more names. I call them one by one.
“Sorry, I’m not taking any new patients right now. Did you try So-and-So?”
“Yes, I already tried her.”
I began by calling doctors within a seven to ten mile radius of my house. I am now expanding my search to 40 miles.
“Sorry, I am not accepting any new patients at this time. Why you don’t you try Charlottesville? I had an instructor at UVA who is in private practice, very good with depression.”
Charlottesville is over 70 miles away. Would you drive over 70 miles for an expensive one-hour chat with a psychiatrist? I wouldn’t.
I have a few more numbers to call that are within 40 miles of the house. Before the end of the day, I will again try to find someone. Who knew it would be so difficult?
I wonder what happens to people who suddenly go crazy? Like, schizophrenic crazy? Like Madman Munt, a character from one of my favorite films, Barton Fink. Would Madman Munt have to call around for an appointment, only to find that no doctors are accepting new patients?
Sweating from the heat of the fire he has just set in his hotel, Madman Karl Munt says into the phone, “Doc, things are just all balled up at the head office. I really need to see you.”
And the doctor says: “I’m sorry, I’m not accepting any new patients, Mr. Munt. However, there’s a doctor eighty miles from L.A. who specializes in multiple personality disorder and psychosis. Safe driving!”
Anyway, I am not going into this with a high opinion of therapists. Some people look at a therapist and see some kind of cross between a priest and a guru. I tend to hold them in somewhat less regard. Like everyone else, they are just doing a job, and it is a delusion to think they care about you outside of your ability to pay their hefty fees.
When my parents divorced back in ‘93, I paid for several therapy sessions for myself out of my savings from my part time job. I was in college at the time, taking the standard undergraduate Psych course as part of my curriculum, and I chose (wisely or not) to start therapy with my professor, who had a private practice. The sessions cost $90.00 a pop, and I went to several, though probably no more than six or seven.
When the money ran out and I cancelled my next appointment, my doctor and professor did not so much as ask why, or express concern. My impression was that he did not want to say anything off the clock, free of charge. Not that he said much on the clock. In class, though, he was always full of anecdotes about his crazy patients and their neuroses. This made me a little nervous, I must admit, and I have often wondered if my case study ever found its way into some of his “teaching moments.”
However chatty he was in class, in therapy, I essentially paid $90.00 a session to sit there and talk to myself for an hour. I took nothing away from those sessions, nothing practical I could work on nor even any food for thought. He gave me nothing in return for my money. He would probably say I did not give it a chance to work; I didn’t stick with it long enough.
Maybe so. To me, it was an incredible waste of money. The only tangible thing I remember taking away from that experience happened during my last office visit, when he deigned to interpret a dream of mine.
He acted like it physically made him uncomfortable to say anything, but I asked him specifically what he thought about my dream, and he answered in that vague way that psychologists have of not really answering anything, suggesting “possible” interpretations.
My dream was a recurring nightmare of being trapped on a collapsing suspension bridge over a river. The dream was always frightening and had haunted me for a long time.
The doctor offered that “maybe” the bridge represented the bridge to adulthood that I was having difficulty crossing. That seemed a spot-on interpretation, as far as I was concerned. It was the closest I ever got to a break through moment with that man.
After that, the money was gone and I stopped going. He could have cared less.
However, as a mark against me, I lied to him pretty constantly. It makes no sense to pay a therapist to sit and listen to your lies, but that is what I did, to an extent. I could not even open up honestly to the one person I was paying to objectively help me open up.
Sitting there talking to him, I could not shake the feeling that he was judging me. Part of it was a “man” thing. It’s hard to sit there with another man, talking about feelings, and sexuality (in a non-locker room way), and childhood trauma, and not suspect that the doctor thinks you are a silly oaf.
I kept imagining these little thought bubbles above his head, “Oh God, what a geek!” or “Geez, stop whining. I’m tired of it.” Or, “If he blames his mother one more time, I’m gonna slap him silly.” Or, “Jesus, this guy is such a pussy!”
I would defy any man to sit there with another man, doctor or not, and not suspect that the other man is judging him.
The therapist was like a blank slate, upon which I wrote all my fears; until finally, in my paranoia, I was absolutely certain the doctor had no intention of helping me and was in fact mocking me.
I am looking for a female therapist this time, though the choice is so thin I may have to accept a man, once again. But I am hoping that maybe I will feel more comfortable talking to a woman.
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I had some bad experiences with therapists when I was younger, not unlike what you describe when you were in college in some ways. And last year when I was really struggling with a number of issues, I found a therapist through the insurance referral service who was absolutely terrible. I think she cared and was trying to help, but she seemed so clueless. But then last fall, once I named my own childhood as hving actually been abusive, I looked around for therapists who specialized in adult survivors of child abuse and found a referral service within GA specifically for that set of problems, and through it I have found a therapist who really is helping me. One thing I talked with her about in the first session is that I wanted her to be willing to direct the conversation at times and to offer opinions, and she descirbed herself as a therapist willing to be directive when appropriate.
All of which is to say that I understand your skepticism, that it is indeed quite difficult to find a decent therapist, and that I nonetheless think it’s a worthwhile thing for you to do. You might try some google searches for therapists in your state who deal with the issues you think you need help with and see if that brings up more specific referral services.
I definitely feel more comfortable speaking with a female therapist.
Comment by Scrivener — Wednesday, 28 February 2007 @ 3:09 pm
Wow. I’m surprised that your wife got you to make an attempt to go, but I’m glad that she did.
The only experience I had with a therapist was after my mother died. My father and I went together. I can’t remember if we went once or twice, but we both agreed it was a waste of time (not money, since his employer paid for it.) The therapist spent time arguing with me about religion and I realized I was probably as smart as this guy anyway, and that I could deal with my problems on my own. I’m still dealing with those problems, 12 years later, but I know that at least that therapist wasn’t right for me.
Instead, I just spent a lot of time talking it out with friends and family. Cheap and cathartic.
But I wasn’t suffering from the kind of depression you must feel. It’s a brave step for you to want to do something about it… sometimes I think depression comes from a hyperawareness or intelligence, and of course, dissatisfaction with whatever we have.
There’s no logic to feeling bad sometimes, and it’s hard for us to admit there is something wrong.
Comment by Mel B. — Thursday, 1 March 2007 @ 1:31 am
I called three more therapists yesterday, two of whom said they were not taking any more patients. The third was not in the office, so I left a message and am waiting (probably in vain) for a callback.
I’m going to try my insurance company’s referral service, even though Scrivener says he did not get good results. It may turn out I have already called all the therapists my insurance company recommends, however. I’ve called a lot of them.
It is just unbelievable to me that every one is booked up. I asked one doctor about that, and she said simply that it’s a busy time of year. Maybe there are lots of people afflicted with that seasonal depression. I don’t know. Mine is variable, but never goes away. I’ve become accustomed to lengthy periods of blackness followed by more optimistic, lighter periods of brief contentment. Right now, perhaps as a result of writing here and finally admitting I have a problem, I am feeling somewhat better.
But that goes away and the darkness falls again, eventually, so I need to get help now while my mood is improving. I always think of my moods in terms of colors: white means all is well, blue means I’m down but not depressed, gray means the veil of night is descending, black means I’m in the pit. I’ve noticed lately that I rarely have blue or gray periods anymore; mostly I go from white to black, sometimes in the space of minutes or hours, and I stay in the black for longer periods.
During these times, I want to be totally alone. I don’t even want to talk to anyone on the phone. L. has remarked how when my Mom calls on the weekend, I either don’t answer, or act put out and short with her. I haven’t talked to my Dad in weeks, maybe as long as a month ago.
During these times, I tend to spend longer periods of time in my video game. I obsess about my failings and flaws. Particularly, I find myself obsessing about my abilities as a parent. I have the recurring thought that my son is going to grow up and detest me because I am such a bad father.
I feel angry at those I love, snapping at B. and L. or saying something harsh for no reason. Then I feel guilty afterwards, and begin having the obsessive thoughts about being a terrible husband and father.
Just as an example, this past Sunday evening, while Lynn and out, I put Brendan in the shower for his bedtime bath. I was depressed, so I left him in there and went and sat in the dark in my office. I did not even stay to make sure he washed himself. I didn’t care. When I heard him shut the shower off, I just felt this welling up of anger. Why did he finish so soon? I wasn’t ready to get him out and dried off and dressed. And then when I went in to the bathroom, the floor was soaking wet. He had not kept the shower curtain in the tub. The water was so deep it had flowed out to the carpet in the hall.
Instead of being angry at myself for not having kept a better eye on him, I was angry at him, and I did a lot of yelling. Later, Lynn said I was justified in my anger because there was a ton of water on the floor. But I don’t think I was justified. I know the anger came from somewhere else, and was not really a response to the flooded bathroom.
The anger is a real problem. It manifests itself usually unexpectedly, which is dangerous, I think. I rarely foresee it, and only barely control it. I don’t think of myself as an angry person by nature; I’m an introvert. My Dad on the other hand was a violently angry person, the kind of person who liked to break things when he was mad. I only recall him hitting my Mom once, and I don’t even have any memories of him spanking me, but he would throw things and smash whatever was handy, be it a toy of mine or something else.
That’s hard to believe, but true–my wife is probably shocked by that revelation because Dad seems so calm. But I seem calm, too. Then something triggers the anger and it’s all I can do to keep from putting my fist through a wall.
Comment by greypilgrim — Thursday, 1 March 2007 @ 7:32 am
When you do find a therapist to meet with, I recommend printing out these last few posts and your comments and bringing them with you to show the therapist. I really hope you find someone who will see you and who knows what he or she is doing.
Anger in and of itself is not a bad thing. I am only recently learning this myself, but anger is not something to avoid or be afraid of, because anger is a manifestation of your desire for something to change. Being angry can give you the power to invesigate what you need to change and then to take the appropriate action. I think it’s perceptive of you to recognize that you were misplacing your anger with the water on the floor. Those are important steps: recognizing that you are angry, and then figuring out exactly why you are angry, because then you can figure out how to respond appropriately to the anger to make things better.
I know I have always had major, major difficulty expressing anger of any sort. Which has meant that I’ve turned that anger into other sorts of problems. (Some people say–and I’m not sure exactly what to do with this, but they say–that sadness is anger turned inward, in other words that your depression may be in part about your unwillingness to allow yourself to be angry, which makes you focus that anger inward on yourself, which leads to depression.) I had a personal breakthrough at the end of last year about a bunch of issues, including finally recognizing that indeed I was angry about a bunch of things that I’d been holding inside. It led to some unhealhty outbursts of anger on my part, too.
Talking to a therapist about that anger has been helpful for me–to recognize that it is good to be angry in some situations, and that there are healthy ways to express anger to other people, and that expressing my anger in healthy ways both helps me to not express anger unhealthily and to not feel so angry at myself for bottling it up.
Like Mel B, I spent a lot of my life talking to various friends about a lot of my issues, and that did help me a lot. But it’s not the same thing as talking to someone who isn’t invested in your life and who is (at least hopefully) trained and competent at helping you figure out your own needs.
One more thing I’ll say abotu therapy: I think part of my problems with therapy in previous attempts was that I had no real idea why I was there. I went to therapy because I figured, in some sort of abstract way, that I had problems and so therapy was the thing to do. It has helped me a lot this time around to have more awareness of what it is I want from my therapist. So I went into therapy saying, for example, “I am just now learning how to express anger and I need help from you at figuring out healthy ways of doing that.” That’s why I recommend printing out some of these posts and bringing it with you–you lay out some very specific issues here, and that should help you to get more from your therapist, once you find one. I hope so, at least.
But please find someone, because it is so, so difficult to figure out how to manage anger when you had no healthy role models for that task as a child. And now, when you’re feeling not quite as depressed, is a great time to be pushing yourself to find someone, because it’s so hard to do when you’re in the middle of it.
Comment by Scrivener — Friday, 2 March 2007 @ 10:20 am
I don’t know anything about therapists, as I’ve been more prone to self-medicate and/or do other not-so-productive things to myself instead. But Scrivener sounds very wise. Please consider what he says.
Comment by Heather — Saturday, 3 March 2007 @ 4:12 pm
I’ve been lucky where therapists are concerned, both when I went as a teenager and then several years back where I just needed a handful of sessions to talk things out and hear back from an uninvolved person (I think Scrivener’s absolutely right about that being important). Hope you can find someone who (1) genuinely cares, (2) listens without making you feel judged, (3) offers insight when desired.
It can be a scary thing, though, to embark into therapy, not so much because of uncertainty about the therapist as uncertainty about where talking about your depression/anger/etc. can lead. It’s scary to let things get messy for awhile when what you desperately want is to make everything make sense. At least, that’s kind of how I view therapy or any self-exploration of unsolved (unsolvable?) issues.
Comment by Dawn — Sunday, 4 March 2007 @ 10:03 pm
I too hope you find the help you need.
Comment by Mel B. — Monday, 5 March 2007 @ 12:07 am