He started with the usual questions about my mood, appetite, and sex drive (awk-ward!). I, on the other hand, sat there and continued my ongoing visual explication of his face, ultimately concluding that yes, HE IS STILL THE DOPPELGANGER OF ED ROONEY.
(Which makes those sex questions even MORE awkward.)
Anyway, we he got around to my anxiety levels, I tried my best to answer honestly. You see, I always feel weird about visiting my psychiatrist (as opposed to my therapist) because it's really just the SAME OLD SHIT until he hands me over some drugs. Like, just some formal pleasantries until I break down and say, DUDE. LEVEL WITH ME. ARE YOU HOLDING?! Then he gets that wry smile and writes me out a script. And sure, I've thought abut mentioning this to the guy, about how the whole dynamic makes me feel uncomfortable and kind of like a crackwhore, but I'm sure he'd be all, Well that's interesting. Care to EXPLORE these feelings, Kristine?!
In the end, I pushed this all out of my mind and pretty much told him that my anxiety is the same as usual, but took the opportunity to clarify my definition of USUAL. I worked my way through the following list:
1. Fear of being stabbed/killed/generally TERRIFIED every time I take a shower. [And OH GOD, yes--I totally mentioned ME in the SHOWER. At which point I started picturing HIM picturing ME. IN THE SHOWER. Then I began to wonder if he was picturing me picturing him picturing me?!]
2. Fear of ghosts thinking it's cool to chat with me, thereby appearing and scaring me to the point that I resemble that girl in the closet from The Ring. (FYI, ghosts: NOT COOL.)
3. The general understanding that bridges are SUPER HIGH and if you drive over them, YOU MIGHT FALL DOWN.
4. Car crashes.
5. Oh, and the upcoming flight. The flight that will carry us to our destination, as an entire family, at an altitude of A GAJILLION FEET. Ahem.
After hearing my rambling descriptions and confessions, his response was, well...it was...interesting. Though I'm not so sure it helped my tendency to deteriorate into a blubbering pile of OHMYGODWE'REALLGONNADIE.
Me: So, that's...pretty much it. Nothing new, of course, but I figured I'd mention it since the thoughts are so...well, CONSTANT. Heh. [Scratches neck.]
Him: Well... [Bites pen.] What you're describing isn't psychotic...
Me: It's not?
Him: Well, I mean, you don't think you're going to turn into an alien or something like that...I mean, do you?
Me: HAHAHA! An ALIEN! How silly! [Quietly.] Ah...not lately, no.
Him: Right. [Glances at chart.] I mean, getting murdered in the shower might be unlikely...but it's not something that couldn't happen.
Me: Ehh...well, yes...and see therein lies the proble---
Him: And take me for example! I mean, you know rationally that planes are statistically the safest way to travel. And yet, we just came back from a trip a few months ago...[Takes off glasses and rubs eyes. Stares at specks before placing them back on his face.] ...and I mean, even I got nervous! [Laughter.]
Him: 'Cuz if something happens in that fuselage, I mean...THAT'S IT, ya know?! [More. Fucking. Laughter.] Not much you can do at that point!
Me: THIS IS MY POINT, DOCTOR.
Him: [Ignoring my sudden panic.] So, anyway...well, I think your meds are lookin' good, then. Make another appointment for...two months...right before you move?
Related: are you supposed to buy your therapist/doctor a gift when you part ways amicably? I'm thinking of making him a picture frame with some of my leftover pills. Bonded with my salty tears and the glue that is no longer HOLDING ME TOGETHER.