I'll Be Right Back

I think this piece of fiction is a tasty little morsel.

I’ll Be Right Back

Maria burst through the door of the hotel room, her gaze instantly taking in the presence of the suitcases in the center of the room.  “Yes!” she exclaimed, never so happy to be moving on, than from this bleak spot that her mom had dragged her to, the worst in a long string of bad spots.  There was no other way it could be done.  Maria’s mother, Estelle, worked as a consultant for a high-profile group of corporate business interests, performing a role which required that she be on-site for as long as three months in each major city to which she was assigned.  The next destination was Seattle.

It was a good news/bad news proposition, in black and white, and etched in concrete, at least for the foreseeable future.  The good news was that Estelle was very well-paid, which allowed her to travel comfortably and live extravagantly, if she were of a mind.  The bad news was that, unless she wanted to send Maria away to a boarding school, there was no alternative to taking the girl with her, paying for not only a governess for Maria, but paying for that individual to travel and live where she and Maria did.

But when money is not an issue, and concern for the welfare of the girl is uppermost, then a course of action can be followed that at least allows mother and daughter to live together and spend what time they could together.  Unfortunately, circumstances dictated that there was generally little notice for a change of venue, and Estelle frequently found herself being reassigned, without warning.  Sometimes she was in one location for as little as a month; other times it stretched to three months or even longer.

For Maria, who was thirteen, it was as though she were permanently in purgatory.  She never referred to it as hell, because hell was forever, and Maria knew that even if it seemed like forever, eighteen years old would come eventually, and she could then do as she pleased.  Until then, she accepted the fact that there were no grandparents, or benevolent older siblings, who could help Estelle out, and provide an acceptable home for Maria, at least for the school year.  No, that was not possible, and Estelle was just fine with that.  She did not want Maria growing up without her guidance and love.

So placing Maria in school was not only impractical, it was inhumane.  No one wants to be the new kid 24/7.  Therefore, Maria had a governess, Rita, a woman in her twenties, who was pursuing a career in writing, but needed a steady income as well.  It worked out nicely for all involved, because Rita’s hours were consistent, and consisted solely of providing curriculum for Maria.  Rita followed a set of academic standards, provided by an independent educational service, designed to cover a broad spectrum of recognized grade level skills.  When Maria got to the point where she sought higher education, Estelle wanted her fully prepared to take her position without any noticeable gaps in her formal education.

So what was missing in this domestic picture?  How about a life for Maria?  What about sports?  Friends?  Or even the opportunity to have a crush on a boy or six?  As you may imagine, the situation worked out well for everyone involved, on paper.  But get away from what worked on paper, and start looking into what constituted reality, a twelve-year-old girl could introduce a lot of reality-drama, in an environment pretty much devoid of drama.

Estelle herself was simply not seeing men.  She had experienced hard times when she and Maria’s father had gone their separate ways, her resolve to stay out of the dating arena, still strong after more than five years.  Maybe, at some point in time, when her life had regained some consistency in it, she would have the luxury of dating again, but until then, she had too much on her plate, to include a helping of men.

Therefore, when Maria complained that a hotel was no place to live, because there were no other kids, Estelle commiserated with her, but could only suggest that it was a temporary situation, and then it would be different.

“When, Mom, when will it be different?  When I am grown up? What about my childhood?  Everyone else gets to be a kid and have friends, but I get to have a governess.”  Estelle admitted she made a persuasive argument.

“I’m sorry, Maria, as much now, as the other thousand times you have mentioned this fact.  What would you like me to do?  Besides quit my job, and go to work as a waitress, again.”  Estelle waited.

“Well, we’ve been here for two months now, and it’s boring as heck.  If only there were something here for kids to do!  If only there were kids here to do the something here for kids to do!”

With that rather incoherent bit of logic hanging in the air, Maria stormed out the front door, bypassed the elevator, and raced the five flights of stairs to the lobby, which is where she stopped to gather her thoughts, sitting on one of the deep sofas, looking through a pamphlet she’d picked up out of a whole selection of “things to do” in the greater Seattle area.  So immersed in her thoughts was she that she did not notice the appearance of a boy, probably around fourteen or so, who stood uncertainly to one side, as if trying to decide whether or not to proceed.  He wore a forest green hoodie, and seemed out of place in the lobby. 

Without warning a hotel employee who was sweeping nearby, allowed his broom to fall, hitting the floor with a resounding thwack, and causing Maria to look up suddenly, meeting a pair of the brownest eyes she had ever seen.  Why is it that she thought only girls had brown eyes?

Instinctively, she said, “Hey, there.  Is that you making all that racket?”  Maria was impressed with what she saw.

For an instant nothing happened, and then quickly the boy was pulling off his hood, and extracting the speaker buds from his ears, grinning widely and saying, “Sorry.  Listening to the Killers.  What did you say?”  He was not especially tall, but did seem to carry himself with an athlete’s composure, and the hint of a mustache on his upper lip, gave him the slightly older look than she might have first thought.

“Nothing.  I mean, it’s not important.  Who are you?”  She laughed then at her own abrupt question.

He laughed with her.  “I’m Ivan.”  His smile was right up front, with its authenticity and sparkle.  There was a hint of an accent, as though he were raised in a household where others spoke accented English.  His hair was jet black, with his complexion as smooth as glass, and hinting of a Mediterranean origin.  “What are you doing here?”

Now Maria laughed, since it seemed as though it were open field day on abrupt questions.  “I’m recovering.  From a fight, I mean.  With my mom.”  Why was she even saying this?  “What about you?  You’re here.  Where are your folks?”

“They’re up in our room, resting.  They don’t travel like they used to.  We’ve been on the road since the day before yesterday, if flying in a 757 can be considered on the road.”  He indicated the soda he was drinking.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure!  A Coke would be great!”  Wow, did that take Maria by surprise.  She’d never been offered a “drink” before.  This was definitely more like it.

He disappeared around the corner, and returned shortly with a similar beverage to the one he was carrying.  He also had a bag of pretzels, which he held out to her.  “Would you like a pretzel?”

Lunch too, she thought merrily to herself.  “Perfect.  I love pretzels with soda.  Thank you.  Why are you in Seattle?  Are you going to be here for more than just a day?”

“Definitely!  Probably for a month, while my father takes care of some family business.  What’s to do here?  Anything?”

“Besides the Needle?  I don’t really know.”  She giggled like a sixth grader.  “Maybe we can find out together.”  Had she really said that?

ivan beamed back at her.  “I think this could be the start of a very good thing.  When do we begin?”

Maria beamed back at him.  “Ten minutes?  I’ll be right back.”  She scampered toward the elevators, but stopped short and turned back to him, for one last wave.  He hadn’t moved a muscle, and waved back at her.  He pointed to the floor at his feet, as if to say, “I’ll be right here.”

Never had the elevator taken so long to ascend the five floors.  When finally she broke free and raced down toward the room, her heart was on Cloud Nine.  Maria burst through the door of the hotel room, her gaze instantly taking in the presence of the suitcases in the center of the room.  “No” she wailed, never so distraught to be moving on, than from this joyful spot that her mom had brought her to.

Wheeling around, Estelle threw her hands up in the air.  “NO?  I thought you would be pleased.  I made some phone calls and rearranged my life, and now you say “NO?”

“Oh Mama, please, please, no.”  And Estelle sighed and thought to herself, What did I do now?  Jesus Christe.  “Come here baby, and tell me about it.”

Maria looked down at her soda, and watched as a tear mingled with the ice, and felt that ice in her very soul.  “What’s to tell?” she asked, and the tears came tumbling down.

(16) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: The Next Level

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

The Next Level

Even people with mood spectrum disorder know how to shift gears and move forward.  With the decision made to switch therapists, Annie went to work  researching, checking this website out, and then switching to that one, until she had come up with a very short list of local possibilities.  She was seeking a therapist who specialized in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and Interpersonal Social Rhythm Therapy (ISRT).  I sent out an email to brother Noel to see if he had any skinny about our short list.

Indeed he did, and what he said corresponded to what we had been thinking.  The one we were most interested in was Dr. Mark Cerri, a psychologist working out of Ukiah, who had a website that Annie was impressed with.  She said she thought that we could work with this guy, because one feature of his practice is that he had been working with veterans, so that made me feel as though there were a good chance for a fit.

Amazingly enough, it turned out that my brother not only knew him, but had worked with him earlier, and was very enthusiastic about what he thought might produce a good fit.  I asked Annie if Noel liked him so much, why didn’t he recommend him in the first place.  Annie responded that originally we asked him about a psychiatrist, because we were interested in both a clinical diagnosis and someone who could prescribe medication for me, should that have proved necessary.

Dr. Cerri is not a psychiatrist, he is a psychologist, even though he does have a PhD.  At this juncture in time, I believe that if I felt that medication were necessary, I could go to my own doctor, and ask her to prescribe it for me.  I have already explained to her what is going on, and she knows I am seeing a therapist.  What Annie and I would like Dr. Cerri to help me do, is proceed with the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, and help me get a handle on dealing with the kinds of issues which cause the most turmoil in our lives.

We had yet to discuss with Dr. Garratt, some of the specific issues which arose last winter, when Annie was struggling to figure out what was going on.  It was the reason we originally told Dr. Garratt, that Annie was doing each of the sessions with me, so that she could provide better insight in to what was happening last winter, when I was having the most challenging of times.

And I did not feel that I adequately emphasized that Dr. Garratt is a very capable and very competent therapist.  I would never find fault with him, when it came to his therapy or his approach.  The simple fact of the matter was that he specialized in a therapeutic approach that did not meet my needs.  I cannot emphasize this enough, because I would feel terrible if someone went away from my blog, feeling as though Dr. G. did not fulfill some sort of necessary step, and I left as a result.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

The time to move forward is right now, so that the momentum I have built up recently, will remain in place.  A year ago, things were just heating up; now, things are falling into place.  My sister, among others, has told me repeatedly that I must be an advocate for myself.  I feel as though Annie and I are in better shape now because I have assessed myself and have formed a plan.

When we first appeared on Dr. Garratt’s doorstep, I was in complete denial.  When I think of how much growth I have made since then, I will not say that Dr. Garratt is not also responsible for my progress.  it’s just that I want to take it to the next level.  Now, with Annie’s guidance, I have located and communicated with someone who seems able to get me there.  

The next level.  I feel as though I am playing some sort of video game, with levels and pitfalls, and changes in course.  The only problem is I cannot take the game back if I do not like the way the whole thing seems to be working out for me, so I have to keep plugging along.  Never having indulged in video games before, I am not at my best.  But I am a fast learner, and I have a great coach, so bring on next level.  Where the hell is my ladder?

The Homeless Guy

Annie made an innocuous comment yesterday about street people, up in Eureka, and it prompted this piece of fiction.

The Homeless Guy

Hyacinth emerged from the whole foods store, with a basket of goodness, in more of a hurry than usual.  She’d stopped on the way home from work, with the intention of just picking up some fresh greens and some coconut water, but her shopping cart had taken over, and dragged her around the store, as she willingly abandoned herself to the task.

Now she was behind schedule, the parking lot was a zoo, and she was trying to make her way through the quagmire to her car, when she became aware of the presence of street person, one of the many homeless guys who inhabited this area, because there seemed to be a more tolerant air about the premises.  I say she became aware, because she smelled him before she saw him.  Her immediate thought was that something had died; her next thought was that she wished it would die, and then she realized that the smell emanated from the person who had followed her across the causeway, but continued past her to a point about thirty feet away, where he stopped and fastened his eyes on her, as she fished about in her bag for her keys.  What on earth did Homeless Guy want from her, besides the obvious? 

What was normally an automatic action, became a prolonged moment of anxiety, as the elusive keys were nowhere to be found.  And then when she hauled them out, and tried to insert the key in the lock, the whole ring had ended up on the ground.  The more she tried to assume an attitude of indifference, the more she struggled.  At one point she had returned the man’s gaze, just long enough to feel a sense of revulsion at what the image presented.

His face, aside from being dirty and unkempt, was bruised and covered with flecks of dried blood, one side already turning a mottled blend of black and purple, with his stubble of beard providing an appropriately unattractive backdrop for this feature.  He had a crew cut, a dirty blond color, which was more dirty than blond.  He wore a tight t-shirt, and a pair of loose, dirty Levis, that hung down his backside, in the fashion of the times.  He was awfully young to be a homeless guy.  The creepiest feature of all, was his eyes, which gave him the dazed appearance of being on medication.

The man was a walking mass of gnarly.  And why did he seem so intent on staring at her?  He was making Hyacinth seriously nervous, and she kept her cell phone at the ready, in case he should go off.  Was that him muttering to himself?  That is so creepy, she thought to herself.  She felt his presence so strongly, she actually looked around to see if there was anyone else around who might be of assistance, should the need arise.  With a sense of relief, she saw another man, one who was obviously a businessman of some sort, because he was wearing a suit, and was carrying a briefcase.  He was surveying her, carefully checking in all directions, before continuing across the parking lot, still heading toward her. 

As quickly as she could, she tried to cram the rest of her groceries into the trunk, so that she could return the cart to the nearest cart corral.  Three things happened simultaneously, with blinding speed.  The homeless man yelled and bolted straight for her; the business man had broken into a dead run, and was also coming straight at her, and she dropped her gallon glass jug of organic apple juice on the pavement with a thunderous crash.

She jumped back to try and avoid the splashing juice, while the two men converged on the spot, with the homeless man unexpectedly plowing headfirst into the business man’s stomach, knocking him to the ground, and with it the briefcase and another very curious object.  It was a little snub-nosed hand gun, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, that the businessman had withdrawn from his briefcase.  The force of the head-butt had knocked the businessman back so forcefully, his head had been slammed hard enough into the asphalt, as to knock him unconscious.

Thunderstruck by this sudden turn of events, Hyacinth stared, open-mouthed at the homeless man.  She saw that his eyes were blazing and alive, and that he was obviously not out to harm her.  “I saw this guy do the same thing to another woman, and I didn’t do a damn thing to stop him.” He spoke softly.  “This time I said, ‘No way.’” 

With that he was gone as a siren wailed in the distance, rapidly getting closer as Hyacinth stood there, contemplating the old cliche about not judging a book by its cover.  Maybe not, but the book could still be a best-seller.  At least Hyacinth thought so.

(15) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: She's a Pretty Good Cook

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

She’s a Pretty Good Cook

Comorbid, as in comorbidity, is an ominous enough sounding word, meaning simply that a person has two different mental issues, existing at the same time.  Annie used this phrase last week when I was writing about sorting out the different contentions with which I deal.  I was speaking of being able to distinguish between anxiety and agitation, for instance, or anxiety and irritability.

Some sufferers of MSD, do not have multiple mental problems, but that is not the norm.  Just as panic attack syndrome was a part of me for 48 years, anxiety remains with me still.  My point in mentioning comorbidity, is that MSD sufferers, on the average, demonstrate characteristics of their illness 54% of the time, which means the other 46% of the time they do not manifest symptoms of their illness.

Unfortunately, there is no manual that tells me which are good days, and which are days that I must watch out for.  I now employ the mood chart, which allows me to see when one or more red flags appear in any given day.  A red flag may mean inadequate sleep, or the presence of lethargy in my legs, or any of the other identifiable components, with which I must contend.  

So, when I spiraled downward on Wednesday, after leaving the psychiatrist’s office, did it mean that I was suffering from mood spectrum disorder, and that the visit was a trigger?  Or did it mean that, “Life is a bitch: deal with it?”  This is what I am trying to sort out, with Annie as my coach.  In yesterday’s piece, I alluded to Interpersonal Social Rhythm Therapy (ISRT), a therapeutic approach which incorporates the belief that MSD patients can control their symptoms just as effectively with management, as they can with medication. 

This last statement represents the essence of my therapeutic goals and objectives.  In choosing management over medication, I accept the fact that I need a good coach, a good mentor (psychiatrist) and a flexible environment, so as to allow for the foibles of day-to-day existence to crop up upon occasion, without serious complications.  By that I mean that being retired allows me to work when I choose, and even if that is every day, it need not be if I am encountering technical difficulties.  When I was working in the school district, I did not have the luxury of deciding when I wanted to work and when I didn’t.

Obviously, it’s very helpful to not have to go to work (even if I enjoyed my job) if I am “under the weather.”  I liken it to having the flu.  No one wants a coworker who is sick to show up at work and share the goodness.  It’s one of those damned if you do (come to work-sick), damned if you don’t (don’t come to work-slacker) situations.  I, however, have made the decision that I will no longer be working on a crew.  I do not feel as though that is going to benefit anyone, partly because I can not guarantee I will be there, and also because I can not be certain that I will be acceptably disposed to getting along with my coworkers, at any given moment in time.

In addition to ISRT as a therapeutic tool in my recovery program, is Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, which according to Dr. Phelps, “has been shown in several large studies to be as effective as antidepressant medications for the treatment of mild to moderate depression.”  He goes on to say that “most people do not know that therapy works as well as antidepressant medications.”

And that represents the foundation upon which I will build my therapeutic recovery program.  I have prattled on sufficiently about my willingness to obtain and record the necessary data on my mood chart, my enthusiasm for regulating sleep, diet and exercise, and my already-proven ability to utilize Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, so that I do not have to justify my decision.  All I need to do is find a psychiatrist/psychologist who is well-versed in IRST and CBT, so we can get together and make alphabet soup.  With Annie as part of the process, and a soup being contemplated, I am guaranteed of success, because Annie is a pretty good cook.

(14) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: As the Dust Settles

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

As the Dust Settles

Whew.  Crisis averted.  We are up here in Eureka, after having escaped the mental clutches of the therapeutic arena.  As Lynda Grace observed, one issue she faced was, “having to leave a session feeling more emotional or upset than when I arrived.”  That was certainly the case with Wednesday’s session.  It left me spiraling downward, and it left Annie going off to market without me, and feeling drained.  We don’t need this grief. 

I will pause one moment to emphatically state that this is not about Dr. Garratt being a good guy, and certainly not about him being a bad guy.  It is about seeking a therapeutic program, designed to meet my specific needs, and those of my coach.  The two methods of therapy that are tailor-made for me are Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy (which was so successful for me and Dr. Jill), and Interpersonal Social Rhythm Therapy (IRTS) which I have already been utilizing since the first day I printed off the blank mood chart and started recording data, based on my daily manifestations of mood spectrum disorder.

Annie and I have constantly referred to these two therapeutic approaches, and Dr. G. has not so much as asked to see the chart, which I bring with me every visit.  What’s up with that?  Annie had already ingested all of the parameters of psychoeducation, which despite its ominous title, merely means learning about mood spectrum disorder, and all of its ramifications.  Researchers in Spain had long demonstrated that a group-therapeutic approach, in which a series of twenty-one specifically designed lessons were presented over twenty-one weeks, was an effective and efficient method of beginning a long-term therapeutic program, which varies from one individual to the next.

Now, Annie has guided me, independently, through this process, I have been charting the data, and it is time to embrace the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.  Unfortunately, the psychiatrist I have been seeing places a tremendous amount of emphasis on psychoanalysis, and this is simply not a fit.  In response to the well-intentioned question, “Why don’t you just ask him to switch, and adapt the therapeutic approach that you wish,” I say, “I want to seek out a therapist, whose specialty is in the areas I desire, and not as an afterthought.”  

I must also add, that this is a decision that I do not take lightly, switching doctors in mid-stream, but that I must take into consideration my coach’s input.  Annie has been feeling it in her gut for several sessions now, while she watched the intellectual sparring going on between me, and Dr. Garratt.  She has been feeling as though the emphasis on psychoanalysis does not belong in the picture just yet.  Or even do a certain amount, to cover some basic foundation elements, but enough is enough.

The final component involving making this magnitude of a decision, came from Annie’s therapist, who has been instrumental from the beginning, guiding Annie through the components of psychoeducation, and providing for her, some basic tools for dealing with my escalating illness.  When Annie described the events of Wednesday’s session, her therapist was very supportive of our decision to look for a different therapist.

She said to Annie, when the situation had been outlined, “It’s as simple as this: If you do not feel it is a fit, then it is not a fit.”

I don’t think it gets any more basic than that.  If I go to a shoe store, and select a pair and try them on, I might take a few minutes to accurately test them out.  I might stroll around the store, I might examine the effect in a full-length mirror, but ultimately, if they are too tight around the toes, then it is not a good fit.  Go back to the drawing board, or the yellow pages, whichever applies, and try to find a therapist who is a better fit.  After all, who likes to go around with ill-fitting shoes, when there are plenty of proper-fitting shoes available?  Not me and not Annie either.  

And you know what?  I don’t even think Dr. Garratt would fault our decision.  What exists is a setup for failure, and I do not see failure in the cards.  I may not like the hand I’m dealt, but that doesn’t mean I am throwing it in.  I have a good partner, and there are plenty of dealers, so let’s visit the next casino on the list.  Who knows?  Maybe we’ll hit the jackpot.

The End of the Road

The End of the Road

Norma drove a taxi in San Francisco, and she earned every dime she brought home.  It could be a good job, but mostly it was not.  If she got a run of luck, she could end up ferrying convention-goers from the airport and back, all shift long.  But if the going was rough, and she ended up sitting around waiting, it could drive her nuts.  She’d found cruising the main bars and clubs was totally hit and miss; she missed more than she hit, and she got hit on more than she wished.

What she really liked was the long-distance fare, the one who wanted to go from SFX all the way up to Marin.  Just turn her loose on the freeways, and she could get around like a greased pig on a hot day in the mud.  Just don’t get in her way.  She was on the fast track one Friday, desperate for a good night because she wanted to be able to earn enough money to buy her baby girl something special for her eighth grade graduation, coming up within a week. 

She remembered her own graduation, and the way she had felt so grown up, heading over to the high school, all of two blocks from the middle school.  She liked the fact that she could take certain classes over there as a  middle schooler, like algebra, and band.  It had just made her feel that if she could succeed at the high school, as an eighth grader, she would do fine the rest of her four years.

The night had started off great, whetting Norma’s desire to do well.  She had just taken a guy to the Wharf, and was heading back toward the airport, when she got a call to pick up a fare at a private residence in a swank part of town.  She wanted this call badly, but she needed to head back to the station for a pit stop first.  She hated to take the time, but she also hated to drive around in agony.  

The alternative was that she stop at a favorite taxi take-out shop, that catered to the drivers, and use their facilities.  She could leave the engine running, because there were so many other drivers around, that she never had to worry that someone would try and drive off in her taxi.  When the dispatcher contacted her a second time, she told him seven minutes and threw caution to the wind.  She was almost on top of her pitstop, and decided to go that route, figuratively speaking.

Upon emerging from the coffee shop, she saw a vague shape slipping away from her taxi, and felt that maybe she had come out just in time.  Hurrying over, she yanked open the driver’s door, and jumped inside, eager to score what might prove to be the most profitable fare of the evening.  Her radio screeched and blared, momentarily startling her, and making her realize that she was on edge.  Before she had time to even begin to figure out what was wrong, she caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, and realized that she was not alone in the taxi.

Simultaneously, she felt an icy finger of fear, flitting across the hairs of her neck, and the cold feel of steel against her skin.  She jumped, and a voice, low and cold and menacing, said, “Take it easy lady, and you won’t get hurt.  Just do as I ask, and...”

“Bullshit!” Norma blurted out.  “Total and complete bullshit.  You creeps always start out saying no one is going to get hurt, but you don’t give a fuck about me or my daughter.  All you care about is money.”

“Hey, Sister, pipe down and don’t get your panties in a bunch.  Listen to what I ask you and this will all be over in the time that it takes you to drive from here to The Embarcadero.  That’s all I’m asking.”

“You aren’t asking anything; you have a gun and that isn’t the same thing.”  Norma was doing some quick thinking.  Was this guy really going to let her go at the end of this ride?  Look at his hand shaking, she thought.  He’s a meth-head, and he just needs bucks for his next fix.  This is the shits because these guys are just simply walking time bombs, ones whose teeth are gone and whose finger gets awful itchy on the trigger of a gun.

“But I did ask.  Just do it, Honey, before I get agitated, because if I get agitated, then my hand really starts to shake.  You don’t want me to get nervous with a piece in my hands, do you”  He grinned and revealed firsthand that his front teeth were, indeed, missing in action, and his smile was lopsided and evil.

Norma’s brain was in overdrive; so, coincidentally was her taxi.  She was doing 60, five miles per hour over the speed limit, and she wondered if this idiot had ever taken the time to think about what would actually happen, if he were to shoot her while the taxi was traveling at that speed.  All of the sudden, it was clear what she was going to do.  It was foolhardy, it was downright dangerous, but she had already figured out that she was probably on a one-way trip to nowhere, so it was worth a shot.

Without warning, and raising quite a ruckus from the back seat, Norma took the next exit, and hurtled down the off-ramp at double the posted speed, running the stop light at the bottom, and going right through the empty intersection, at thirty miles per hour.

“Stop!  What the hell are you doing?  This is not the Embarcadero.”

“No, it’s not, but it is the end of the road,” and she turned sharply into a parking lot, squealing her tires, and attracting the immediate notice of a sea of blue.  Slamming on her brakes, she drew up to a stop, right at the rear entrance of the main police station serving the greater San Francisco area.  Jumping out of the taxi, she screamed, “Watch out!  Gun!” and that was all it took.

As they led the assailant away, all Norma could think to say was, “Next time you get into a taxi, remember that you do not need a gun to get to where you’re going.  A simple request will suffice.”

(13) You Call it Bipolar: I Call it MSD: Game-Playing

You Call it Bipolar-I call it MSD

Game-Playing

Yesterday, I foolishly wrote a piece called “Getting Better.”  I say foolishly because it is the same as waving a red flag in front of an already-angry bull, with the result just as predictable.  I had a very rough time at Dr. Garratt’s office yesterday, and that, combined with one or two other factors, plunged me back into a spiraling depression, one which left me incapable of going to yesterday’s initial farmers market.  What you going to do?

What constitutes a rough time at the psychiatrist’s office?  I long since figured out for myself that it was not always going to be warm and fuzzy in that arena, but I figured that since no one was holding me accountable for past actions, it couldn’t be all that bad.  I have not struggled with the fact that there were uncomfortable times this past winter, because it is the nature of the illness, over which I have no control.  And that was part of the problem yesterday at Dr. Garratt’s office.

He had asked me a moment earlier if I felt my father maintained a “patriarchal presence.” 

After asking him to repeat the question, I asked how I was supposed to be able to determine that from the vantage point of a child.  Then I agreed that he did have a patriarchal presence.  In response to his asking if I felt I had the same, I said I felt I was the same as my father in that regard, but that I had refused to adopt the parts of him that I disliked: the black moods, the anger tantrums, or the snide comments at the dinner table.

At one point I made reference to mood spectrum disorder, and he asked, “Is that the label you prefer?”

I gave him a look.  “I don’t care whether you call it bipolar or mood spectrum disorder, but yes, I prefer MSD.”

“As opposed to a different label?”  He looked blankly at me.

I responded quickly, “I don’t particularly like labels at all, but I accept the fact that I have a mood spectrum disorder.”  I hoped he was not going to question that.

“Do you?  So that you can pin a label to your chest?  So that you can explain/excuse your behavior?  It’s convenient to have a label to fall back on.”  Playing Devil’s advocate, I assumed, and it rubbed me the wrong way.

“I don’t understand this line of questioning.  What are you saying?  Are you saying that you do not think I have a mood spectrum disorder?  I have read everything I can find my hands on, and I agree with everyone who keeps saying that I fit the profile.  I keep the mood chart, and I have come to rely on it for guidance in making plans.”

Dr. G. replied, “I am the one who is qualified here to determine if you have a bipolar disorder.  Who is “everyone” who says you have a bipolar disorder?”

“My family?  Is this a joke?  Why are you questioning the diagnosis?  If there was something wrong with our logic, why wouldn’t you have said something a long time ago?”

He said,  “I am just asking you if you like the feeling of having a label.”  

“If you mean do I care whether my actions are the result of an illness, or whether they are the actions instilled in me by my father, I don’t care, so long as I can take the necessary steps to rid myself of bad habits, and inappropriate behavior.  I hate this line of questioning, and I don’t like playing games.”  

The way Annie and I looked at it, we were paying him the big bucks to make the diagnosis.  On the very first visit, he had prescribed the atypical antipsychotic drug, Seroquel, and then we had settled on Lamictal (Sp?) as a mood-stabilizer, should I determine that is necessary.  It sure sounded to me as though he had decided that I had MSD issues; else, why prescribe medication accordingly?

So if he believed I have a mood disorder, then why is he hammering away at these kind of word games.  I don’t like it, Annie doesn’t like it, and I am beginning to feel as though he is not listening to our joint request that we pursue a holistic cognitive therapy program.  There is too much Freud; there is too much Jung.  And there’s too much of what doesn’t work.  And it’s time to drop back five yards and reassess the situation.

I’ll let you know what my coach and I determine.