Danyul Goes To Therapy: The Intake
I make it to the clinic with 5 minutes to spare. I wander into the building not knowing where I should go. No one gave me any kind of info when I made the appointment or yesterday when they rang to confirm that I'd be there. I wander into the building and am met with a little waiting area that looks like it fell out of the late 1970's. There's a hideous burgundy rug that looks like it's seen better days, and the walls are a hideous burnt orange and tired old mustard colour. I look to my left as I enter the doors and see a little sign poked at the reception desk. It informs me that there is no administrative assistant here today, but to take a seat and someone will be with me shortly. That doesn't look promising. The atmosphere is so thick in here you could slice through it with a spoon.
A woman in her early 40's that looks like she fell out of the 70's as well sits on my right. She's got bellbottom pants, a cream coloured jacket and a "flower power" sack-like purse. Another woman probably about the same age as her sits a few seats down wearing some kind of old sweat suit. Did I just do the time warp? I feel even more uncomfortable sitting here. Chubb lingers on the left, trying to hide behind me, despite being bigger than me. There's a board with all kinds of group therapy and outside activities listed. We give each other the good old eyebrow telegraph about what bullshit that is. We're not sociable people.
A male nurse comes wandering out and asks me if we're here for the intake. I nod and he hands me a clipboard. "I have an appointment for 10.00" "Name?" "Daniel." "Fill that out and pop that back to me soon as you're done." Christ, I hate paperwork. Why can't they just have us do it online the night before? Laziness I imagine. Chubb sits next to me, twitching like a ferret on acid as I scribble my name and other information onto the forms. "Oh, fuck me, how old am I?" I whisper to him. He leans down and whispers back, "We're 26." I nod at him and he pulls back and continues to twitch. "What the fuck is your problem?" I whisper at him. "The new place, you know, lots of people." "I feel you on that one. My anxiety is off the charts. I should have popped a Xanax." "Should have given me one too." He mutters as I hand the clipboard back in. "I put you as my emergency contact." "Aw, that's sweet." "I still hate you." "I'd not have it any other way."
I tell him to wait in the waiting area when I'm called. He surprises me by pulling out a book and diving into the pages. I take a peek at the clock before heading in. 10 minutes late. This pisses me off, but I don't say anything after I trail after the woman. I said no women and here I am, seeing one. What kind of a raw deal is this? I need to declutter my head. I should give her the benefit of the doubt, but the question is, will I?
She's a few inches shorter than me and is apple shaped. We wander down the hall, me like a lanky ghost behind her as she chatters away, telling me that I've taken an important step by even coming here today. I wonder if she gets paid by the word. She shows me to her office and tells me to take a seat wherever I feel comfortable. I take a seat in a large, overstuffed armchair next to the window. Then I get my favourite question. "What are you looking to get out of therapy?" Oh, I don't fucking know, how about some symptom relief? I keep it together. "Well, my aim is to gain symptom relief by better equipping my toolbox with better tools to aid myself during deep periods of depression or mania. I'm looking for someone who's trained who I can bounce ideas off of; I'm looking to build off what I already know with some constructive thoughts." She types it into my file. "That's a great goal to have." And the parade of the same repetitive bullshit continues. She asks me all of the usual questions about my upbringing, where I lived as a child, my parents, siblings and all that. I don't see why they just don't read the files they had sent over from my last therapist.
I'm kind of lying with what I've just said. Of course, I want symptom relief, but I'm also looking for a sort of moral guide. It's too early to put that on her. I mean, in a way, isn't that also her job? I fill her in on the last three diagnoses I've received and all of them were the same with only one or two minor footnotes. All of the people that failed to actually see me diagnosing me. That's the one part of psychology I think is a crock. They only see what I tell them. If I don't show them all my cards, how are they to really know if I've got a full house or not? That being said, I don't mention the little breaks my brain takes from reality, drifting into the past or another land altogether. I know it's important to mention, but it's only the intake. There's so much more that needs to be revealed and we're on a time schedule here. Eventually, I will tell her. I'd like to have someone else's thoughts on what it means. I think it's more than just stress and my obsession with puzzles, wanting to understand everything. It's different each time. Different elements creep in at different times.
I think about mentioning the whole "I'm seeing dead people" thing, but I feel it's a bit too Sixth Sense and this is something that I should explore a bit more on my own before I jump the gun and end up either in a loony bin or being forced through the ritual of exorcism. (I'm well aware they need to be sanctioned by the Catholic Church and in reality are far and few in-between. I know a lot about this kind of shit, interestingly enough. Perhaps more on that at a later date.) "How would you say your symptoms are?" This time I don't lie and it pours out of me. "I feel like I'm falling apart. I need some sort of relief. This place is my last resort. I can't focus, I can't think. I need to do something. Its just me, other people have said things to me, that I needed to do something about my mood swings, especially my depression." She asks me the standard questions to gauge my depression and this time I don't hide behind a painted smile. "I have no energy to do anything most days. I can't concentrate most days. The last time I was able to sit and read a book was over a month ago. I tried the other day and didn't get very far. A few pages in and my mind was racing and wandering. I feel hopeless, that everything would be easier if I was dead." She types almost as quickly as me, adding notes to my file. "You fall under the severe depression model." Well, no fucking shit. "I know."
"What about self-harm?" "Yes. I started harming at 11 to cope with everything going on inside and around me and I'm almost 27 now. It goes in cycles and periods. It's always controlled. I never not have control over it." I'm tempted to tell her that I chronicle it in photos and film as well as extensive journalling, but I feel its a bit early to. I make a mental note to add this later. It's important she knows; should she have any questions or doubt me, I can show her the proof in the pudding. That being said, I look her dead in the eye. "I hate hospitals. I don't want to hear about them. I had a horrible experience once and I never want to go through that again." She nods. "Well, I'd never section you unless, of course, you came in here threatening someone or said that you wanted to kill yourself." I need to make it clear to her. "I know the protocol. When this happened to me, my words were twisted and used against me. They took my using substances to cloud my depression and slow down my racing euphoria that I was suicidal and they committed me. They put me in some fucking basement cage at a hospital. It wasn't clearly explained to me why I was there. That only further angered me." My tone is clipped, dripping with acid and I'm not even angry at her. She knows I'm angry about what occurred. "Then they transported me to some fucking mental hospital hours away from where I live with no money or way to get home. I was locked up there for days. While I was in that goddamn cage my requests to see a doctor or a lawyer were ignored. I was told that I was there because they felt it was best for me." "I'm sorry that happened to you."
I discuss the death threats and the attempt. I mention my detachment from people, my lack of care and concern. My inability to connect emotionally with people, though I do understand logically why people would express or feel a certain emotion. I'm almost clinical when it comes to that. I almost sound as if I've swallowed a medical textbook, but I want to be clear about how I feel with emotional bonding and attachment. It's key information for her. She can't help me if she doesn't have a foundation to help me construct a house upon. I talk about being molested and the intense stress I've been under as a full-time caregiver for months. I told her that I was overwhelmed by everything going on and I'm just lost in the middle of it. Usually, it takes a lot of prying for someone to get stuff out of me, face to face, but I felt comfortable with her. That's saying something because I never like shrinks, especially women. I'm open with her, more direct and upfront than I have been with the other women I've worked with. Then a thought hits me. "How old are you?" I already know the answer, but I want her to tell me. "I'm about your age, a few years older." "I think that I might be able to work with you. I don't like talking to women and I know why. I have issues with women, but I don't see you in the same light. I think it didn't work out with my other therapists because they were all around my mother's age. I transferred a lot of the aggression I can't act out upon her, in hostility, passive aggressiveness and compulsive lying, with each of the therapists." She looks over at me. She looks impressed. I don't share my other thoughts just yet; she needs to earn this trust...though interestingly enough, Chubb had it almost instantly.
I tell him to wait in the waiting area when I'm called. He surprises me by pulling out a book and diving into the pages. I take a peek at the clock before heading in. 10 minutes late. This pisses me off, but I don't say anything after I trail after the woman. I said no women and here I am, seeing one. What kind of a raw deal is this? I need to declutter my head. I should give her the benefit of the doubt, but the question is, will I?
She's a few inches shorter than me and is apple shaped. We wander down the hall, me like a lanky ghost behind her as she chatters away, telling me that I've taken an important step by even coming here today. I wonder if she gets paid by the word. She shows me to her office and tells me to take a seat wherever I feel comfortable. I take a seat in a large, overstuffed armchair next to the window. Then I get my favourite question. "What are you looking to get out of therapy?" Oh, I don't fucking know, how about some symptom relief? I keep it together. "Well, my aim is to gain symptom relief by better equipping my toolbox with better tools to aid myself during deep periods of depression or mania. I'm looking for someone who's trained who I can bounce ideas off of; I'm looking to build off what I already know with some constructive thoughts." She types it into my file. "That's a great goal to have." And the parade of the same repetitive bullshit continues. She asks me all of the usual questions about my upbringing, where I lived as a child, my parents, siblings and all that. I don't see why they just don't read the files they had sent over from my last therapist.
I'm kind of lying with what I've just said. Of course, I want symptom relief, but I'm also looking for a sort of moral guide. It's too early to put that on her. I mean, in a way, isn't that also her job? I fill her in on the last three diagnoses I've received and all of them were the same with only one or two minor footnotes. All of the people that failed to actually see me diagnosing me. That's the one part of psychology I think is a crock. They only see what I tell them. If I don't show them all my cards, how are they to really know if I've got a full house or not? That being said, I don't mention the little breaks my brain takes from reality, drifting into the past or another land altogether. I know it's important to mention, but it's only the intake. There's so much more that needs to be revealed and we're on a time schedule here. Eventually, I will tell her. I'd like to have someone else's thoughts on what it means. I think it's more than just stress and my obsession with puzzles, wanting to understand everything. It's different each time. Different elements creep in at different times.
I think about mentioning the whole "I'm seeing dead people" thing, but I feel it's a bit too Sixth Sense and this is something that I should explore a bit more on my own before I jump the gun and end up either in a loony bin or being forced through the ritual of exorcism. (I'm well aware they need to be sanctioned by the Catholic Church and in reality are far and few in-between. I know a lot about this kind of shit, interestingly enough. Perhaps more on that at a later date.) "How would you say your symptoms are?" This time I don't lie and it pours out of me. "I feel like I'm falling apart. I need some sort of relief. This place is my last resort. I can't focus, I can't think. I need to do something. Its just me, other people have said things to me, that I needed to do something about my mood swings, especially my depression." She asks me the standard questions to gauge my depression and this time I don't hide behind a painted smile. "I have no energy to do anything most days. I can't concentrate most days. The last time I was able to sit and read a book was over a month ago. I tried the other day and didn't get very far. A few pages in and my mind was racing and wandering. I feel hopeless, that everything would be easier if I was dead." She types almost as quickly as me, adding notes to my file. "You fall under the severe depression model." Well, no fucking shit. "I know."
"What about self-harm?" "Yes. I started harming at 11 to cope with everything going on inside and around me and I'm almost 27 now. It goes in cycles and periods. It's always controlled. I never not have control over it." I'm tempted to tell her that I chronicle it in photos and film as well as extensive journalling, but I feel its a bit early to. I make a mental note to add this later. It's important she knows; should she have any questions or doubt me, I can show her the proof in the pudding. That being said, I look her dead in the eye. "I hate hospitals. I don't want to hear about them. I had a horrible experience once and I never want to go through that again." She nods. "Well, I'd never section you unless, of course, you came in here threatening someone or said that you wanted to kill yourself." I need to make it clear to her. "I know the protocol. When this happened to me, my words were twisted and used against me. They took my using substances to cloud my depression and slow down my racing euphoria that I was suicidal and they committed me. They put me in some fucking basement cage at a hospital. It wasn't clearly explained to me why I was there. That only further angered me." My tone is clipped, dripping with acid and I'm not even angry at her. She knows I'm angry about what occurred. "Then they transported me to some fucking mental hospital hours away from where I live with no money or way to get home. I was locked up there for days. While I was in that goddamn cage my requests to see a doctor or a lawyer were ignored. I was told that I was there because they felt it was best for me." "I'm sorry that happened to you."
I discuss the death threats and the attempt. I mention my detachment from people, my lack of care and concern. My inability to connect emotionally with people, though I do understand logically why people would express or feel a certain emotion. I'm almost clinical when it comes to that. I almost sound as if I've swallowed a medical textbook, but I want to be clear about how I feel with emotional bonding and attachment. It's key information for her. She can't help me if she doesn't have a foundation to help me construct a house upon. I talk about being molested and the intense stress I've been under as a full-time caregiver for months. I told her that I was overwhelmed by everything going on and I'm just lost in the middle of it. Usually, it takes a lot of prying for someone to get stuff out of me, face to face, but I felt comfortable with her. That's saying something because I never like shrinks, especially women. I'm open with her, more direct and upfront than I have been with the other women I've worked with. Then a thought hits me. "How old are you?" I already know the answer, but I want her to tell me. "I'm about your age, a few years older." "I think that I might be able to work with you. I don't like talking to women and I know why. I have issues with women, but I don't see you in the same light. I think it didn't work out with my other therapists because they were all around my mother's age. I transferred a lot of the aggression I can't act out upon her, in hostility, passive aggressiveness and compulsive lying, with each of the therapists." She looks over at me. She looks impressed. I don't share my other thoughts just yet; she needs to earn this trust...though interestingly enough, Chubb had it almost instantly.
I walk out of her office with so many things to think about. She's different from all of the people I've worked with in the past, she might be a good fit. It's too early to make any kind of decision on this, but I have a sort of okay feeling. Part of me wonders if its just because she has a Corgi. I collect Chubb from the waiting room and we head out of the building, hand in hand. "How'd it go?" "I don't know. I'm, I don't want to say hopeful and ruin something, but something might be going on here." "Sexually?" I smack him with my free hand. "No, if that were it I'd have started out with that and filled you in on the details." "I know what you meant, I just wanted to be a dick." "You're the biggest dick that I know." "That's quite a confidence booster." "You heard what you wanted to hear, didn't you?" "Don't I always?"
**, Of course, other things were said in the session intake that I didn't care to share. As I journal and blog these sessions, I'm not going to be sharing everything. It's not that I want to lie to people, there are just some things that I wish to keep private for several reasons.
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