Therapists, Therapists Everywhere, and Not a Drop to Drink

(Hmm...And I had such high hopes for that title when I started typing it...)

So, who do you have to fuck to get some therapy around here?

When last I saw my psychiatrist, we talked about how over the next month I was going to make a real effort to get myself into therapy. Because, you know, I clearly don't spend enough time talking about myself and my thoughts and stuff like that. Ahem.

He gave me a name of a woman here at the medical center, and I do actually have an appointment to see her...in FEBRUARY. For crying out loud. Which wouldn't bother me so much--I'm busy, busy, busy anyway, and things are as stable in the neurochemical wasteland I call a mind as they have been in the last few years--except that I don't think we're going to end up working together even when I do meet her. Why, you ask? Because, I answer. Because she works in our neurology department, where they have her meet with people whose relatives have been diagnosed with horrible degenerative diseases, and she helps them learn to cope. Me? That's one of the few things that's NOT a problem I'm dealing with.

So I decided to call my insurance carrier and get the names of some other folks I could try and see. You know, people who actually deal with anxiety and depression and stress and stuff? You know, people who might be able to help me? Ha. Well, the woman at the other end gave me the names of six people here. One is a guy, and I'd rather talk to a woman. Another is the woman I'm seeing in February. Two more didn't come up on our faculty listings, even though she said they were faculty. And the other two? Well, they work here all right. In anesthesiology. Maybe I'm just uneducated, but I didn't know that anesthesiologists do therapy, too. Maybe it's hypnotherapy? (Badumbum.)

So then I called and asked for a list of therapists closer to home (since, clearly, I've done some nasty karmic damage in the past, and finding a therapist at my place of work where it would be convenient for me just isn't going to happen).

"No, I'm sorry, you can only see therapists at your medical center," says the cold-voiced lady at the other end of the phone.

"Really?" I reply. "Because that wasn't the case when I went to a therapist a year and a half ago."

"Oh, well, let me check then...Hmm...Oh, look here. I guess you can see people outside the medical center."

Sigh. And if I didn't know to question her idiocy?

"Great. Well, then, can you give me their names?"

"It's a long list," she says. "Can I just email it to you?"

Even better. So I give her my email, she promises to send it out right away, and...Nada. Of course. Haven't heard Thing One from her. And god forbid the insurance company should allow me to do my own search online for an appropriate provider. That would be...oh, I don't know...helpful.

In an hour or so, I'll be going back to my psychiatrist for a meds check. He'll ask me if I've started in therapy yet. And so, to prepare for that visit, I'm sitting here, trying to decide whether I'll get better drugs if I begin to cackle maniacally or sob hysterically. Because remaining calm? No longer an option.