A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(7)
“Your ‘life coaching’ saved me, Dr. Jordan. I’m sorry if you regret that—”
His look stops me. It’s a subtle expression but I know it.
“I mean … my real doctor thought your life coaching was wrong! I wrote down his exact words …” I get my phone and thumb open the notebook app. “He said I was fetishizing the personification of my symptoms. He also said my bipolar disorder couldn’t be cycling as fast as I claimed, not at my age.”
Dr. Jordan’s eyes narrow. “He thought it was wrong? Don’t you mean he thinks it’s wrong?”
Oops.
“I mean back when we talked about it,” I say.
“You never told me.”
“You just said I talk to you too much! And there’s plenty I don’t tell you! He said I should stop talking to you so I stopped talking to him!”
Dr. Jordan sips his coffee. He once made the mistake of telling me Winston Churchill would relight his cigar to give him time to think or compose pithy, articulate statements. Now I know what Dr. Jordan’s coffee is really for.
“I thought you said something last week about your doctor being a woman.”
Shit. “Yeah. That other guy moved away. My new doctor, she just wants me to fill out questionnaires and talk about the meds. As long as I say I’m fine, I’m out the door.”
“So you haven’t given her a chance.”
“I answer all her questions.”
“Mel, some doctors push you and divine meaning from what you say when pushed. Others wait to hear what you say on your own and divine meaning from what you offer up. Offer something up. Give her a chance.”
I don’t say anything.
Dr. Jordan sets his mug down. “Tell her what’s going on in your life. And if you feel strongly about something, say so. Stand your ground; defend your feelings. Be honest and hold nothing back. A good therapist will help you understand and process, not argue. Try her out this afternoon and see. It can only help.”
Hold nothing back? How could I possibly tell that quiet woman in her sterile little office things I’m not willing to tell Dr. Jordan? Things I don’t even let cross my own mind? It’s inconceivable.
HAMSTER IS RUNNING
HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED
HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING
HANNIGANIMAL IS LEVEL/MIXED
Dr. Oswald doesn’t seem old enough to be a psychiatrist. She’s slim, with dark skin, nice bone structure in her face, and wearing a stylish off-white sweater, like an eggshell, with navy slacks. None of the young psychiatrists I’ve seen were any good. I mean to talk to. They’ve been okay about tuning my meds.
She sits there with this nice, open expression, ready for me to … what? I don’t know. And the stress of not knowing, plus maybe telling her about the Hanniganimal today, has shifted my moods even faster than usual. This is our third session and the office is less empty this time. The shelves have more books. There are more framed diplomas on the wall, a Van Gogh print of birds over a field, a bonsai tree on her desk with a tiny origami crane in its branches— “It seems like something’s on your mind,” she says. “We have some time left.”
We’d talked about the routine stuff after I filled out the long weekly questionnaire: Manic Episodes? (no), Depression? (the usual amount), Irritability? (no), Rage? (no), Sleeplessness? (nothing I can’t handle), Obsessive Thoughts? (they mostly mean about sex, and no), Suicidal Thoughts? (definitely not, and that should be the first question), and so on.
Annie called right before my appointment—couldn’t be a mistake this time, not with my name and picture popping up on her screen—and my mind started racing as I declined it. She left no message and that made it even worse. I’m not going to mention tweaking my meds.
“Want to talk about it?” she says. “Or anything else?”
No. Yet I also don’t want to say no tomorrow when Dr. Jordan asks if I gave her a chance. I swung by the house on my way here to bring my charts, but I’m getting cold feet.
“You’re the doctor,” I say. “What should we talk about? My meds are working pretty well. No one at school even knows there’s anything wrong with me.”
“You are doing very well, way above average for someone with your symptoms. Mainly because you aren’t resistant to medication. That’s a lot of the battle right there.”
“I don’t feel like I’m winning anything.”
“Battles are never won. Only survived.”
“Then what’s to talk about? There’s no cure. I’m as good as I’m going to get.”
“Dr. Fletcher wrote in his notes about things you haven’t told your friends, to protect yourself. Some trigger topics—”
I stiffen and she raises a hand.
“I won’t bring them up with only a few minutes left today. But you have painful, real emotions, which aren’t symptoms. Talking about them will make you feel better.”
I don’t say anything.
“I’ll give you a stack of blank forms so you can fill them out before you arrive. That way we can spend our time talking instead of you filling them out here. Okay?”
Has she guessed that I fill them out slowly on her sofa to use up time?
“You’re saying next week I have to talk about …”