My First Shrink

Because They Are Rich People Doctors

I’m on the path to healing, I hope. That’s my plan since I left Law School 3 weeks ago. Judging by my moods and actions and my general gloomy state of mind all this time, it’s clear that I am in much need of a psychiatrist.

In my small town, psychiatrists are silently frowned upon. The implication of a visit means, directly and only, that one is crazy. That is why a relative of mine needed my convincing before even considering scheduling with one. That is why a cousin of mine refused remedial classes long ago. These are not considered modes of healing body and mind; the mere hint of an act even slightly outside the norm is stamp that one is no longer fit to be perceived as strong, stable or macho. And no heterosexual male in this region would want anything to taint their masculinity. Luckily, a queer person such as myself constantly makes it my duty of have my femininity bloom any chance that I get. Admitting to one’s weakness is a beautiful thing. If anything, it makes us stronger.

As we waited for the doctor, the first patient abruptly asked what I was in for and further inserted that she was there because she couldn’t sleep. “Oh really?” I said while simultaneously turning my back on her, pretending to get something out of my bag. I did not want to tell her my condition. I myself did not know for sure. One could tell she was those people who wore their heart on their sleeve. I didn’t like that at all. Thankfully, the doctor arrived and the assistant began calling names.

The Meeting

“Would you tell me why you’re here, please?” the psychiatrist asked sweetly, even before I sat down.

“First of all, Doc, before I continue, may I have your assurance that we have patient-doctor confidentiality?”

“Of course!”

“The reason why I asked is because I’ll be naming names and institutions,” I said.

“Go on.”

Doktora had a sweet voice and kind demeanor that contrasted her face. Her expressions remained impassive and blank. Her outfit was as casual as could be. She wore raised flip-flops, a plain long-sleeved shirt and wore her veil nonchalantly. It was as if she was retrieving laundry. However, her tone made it clear that she was there on business.

Instead of having a free flow conversation, she asked pointed questions but still allowed me to speak voluntarily. It made me think that here was a woman who’s had years of expertise. It assured me especially since she was being charged by the half hour.

On the whole, we talked about the pressures of school, the pressures of work, and the pressures of living in a town that I do not wish to live in. She did ask me what my preference was. “Meaning..?” I asked cautiously. “Are you gay or straight?” she asked directly. “I’m queer,” I replied. And she wrote it down. After a substantial time of talking I finally asked, “So it’s depression? This is depression?” To which she responded: “You’ve actually been depressed for a long time.”

At The Pharmacy

I’m to take half a tablet of two pills, one in the morning and the other in the evening, for two weeks. After which I’m to meet with her again.

At the pharmacy, when the attendants saw my prescription, they asked me, a late-30s, able man to sit down. It was a slightly weird experience. I have never been asked to sit while waiting for medicine. They even preferred me over an old lady who came in earlier than I did. Perhaps the stigma my cousins had felt have some truth in them.

~

And so here I am now, three days in and taking anti-depressants. Honestly, I don’t feel any different at all. And I don’t feel the effects of it yet. Maybe it’s because I’ve had depression for so long. But a classmate of mine told me to trust the process. That the meds work wonders. I should believe her. I’m curious to feel what it feels like to be rid of this miasma swirling in my chest and mind.

I’m just happy I still have strength to write.

Thank you for reading.