Today I had a visit with my psychiatrist. It was pretty routine other than the fact she opened up to me some. She is of East Asian Indian descent and has a strong accent. So keep that in mind about her dialogue. She went on a diatribe about understanding and helping alcoholics in her early clinical days.
“I first saw alcoholics as lacking in character or willpower.” She said.
I watched her expressions and face intently as she told this tale.
“I had to come to an understanding that alcoholics had a great deal of depression.” She said. “I learned to treat that depression and they drank less.”
I nodded in agreement even though I didn’t know where she was going with this.
“So, how depressed have you felt lately on a scale of one to ten?” She asked.
“I don’t feel depressed lately. I mainly feel agitated.” I replied.
“About what? Is it mania?” She asked.
I knew then to stop and regroup.
“No, I am really fine lately. Things are going great.” I replied.
I couldn’t express my unorthodox thoughts on life and this crazy culture we live in. I would be branded as unstable or “mentally ill”. She would see it as I sign that I am digressing and not progressing. It is a frustrating conundrum that I experience often.
“So, how is your wife?” She asked.
She can never remember that I am divorced and am long separated from that individual. I was nice and just replied that we were no longer together. My doctor then wrote me a prescription and I walked out of the door to the car where mom waited.
I and mom drove on into to Auburn to the Red Lobster. Mom insists on doing this. Dad is glad that I drive and get her out of the house. She seemed so frail and confused though. It broke my heart to see her like that. She was just starving as well.
We both ordered seafood platters and a salad. The salad was delicious and before long our meal arrived. We both sat in silence and ate. I tried to start up a conversation but it wasn’t lasting. I finally just gave up and let things be. Mom was not doing well today.
After our meal, the waiter brought our ticket in a folder. Mom sat there desperately trying to figure the tip. Her hands were shaking furiously as see sifted through her money.
“Mom, hand me your wallet.” I said very softly
“I just want to give the correct tip.” She said looking confused.
“I know. Let me handle it.” I replied.
She handed me the wallet with violently shaking hands. I counted out the correct amount and put it into the folder. I then drove us home with tears in my eyes. My mother was such a strong, outgoing woman once. She was full of life. Now, she can’t concentrate enough to calculate a tip. I know she is overmedicated but I can’t do anything about it. I empathize with her so much but there is little I can do to help her. I made the way home and made sure she got back in the bed. I walked back to my apartment with a heavy heart and the weight of the world upon my shoulders.
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