I did it! It was a little scary, but I think I’ve navigated the “transference” from Dr. Drowze to my new therapist. He’s not exactly a real psychiatrist, but he’s pretty close. He’s also a part-time on-line adviser at Smart Tech.com. He got his associate degree in counseling there after spending an entire year in its fully-accredited on-line program.
He’s already juggling ASAP classes three nights a week for the county courts. The demand for counselors surged after Smurk Pharmaceuticals released new statistics on “the limitless opportunities afforded therapy-related enterprises vis a vis court-mandated drug and alcohol programs already fully funded by state and county governments.”
They’re not sure about the causal connections and stuff yet, but the preliminary figures look promising. All studies were “delimited to the lower socio-economic engine which drives all state and county governments via fines, taxes, and other such levies declared fit to collect by said institutions.”
Local governments furnish a lucrative and ‘bottomless’ market for ‘experience-oriented’ counselors, and cheap on-line degree programs for ex-addicts fill an increasingly threatening vacuum in conventional pay-therapy. “County agencies require P.C.’s [patient-consumers] to pre-pay, sometimes years in advance due to court backlogs, or face incarceration, eliminating the need for costly market reports.” studies concluded.
Anyway, my new therapist is a fully qualified, “Fellow of Practical Behaviorism”. I know it sounds kind of hokey, but I saw the on-line exam, and it looked pretty complicated.
The test started with: “Name the most common co-efficient of black, tarry bowel movements.” Some classmates chided Billem Thrice, my new therapist, on Face Twerp for his answer: “The anus.” He later told me that due to the subjectivity of personality theory, “any answer could be right.” but added that technically, it was “de-hydration coupled with the over-ingestion of chocolate.”
The initial anamnesis went well, except for my right hand which now looks like a catcher’s mitt. The interview began with what looked like a checklist, jogging my memory back to the on-line test. His first question was: “Any black, tarry bowel movements?” I thought for a minute and couldn’t recall the last time I’d even inspected my bowel movement, let alone its color and texture.
“Do you know its causa efficiens?” I shook my head dumbly. “Internal bleeding, fella, and you could be in serious trouble!” This guy knows his shit, I thought. I grimaced when he said he would need “bodily evacua” specimens. “On second thought, let’s do that later; that’ll give me time to prepare the results first.” I sighed with relief.
He glanced at the list and then back to me. “Do your current medications allow at least twelve clinically unresponsive hours per sleep period?” I thought about yesterday, when I passed out on the couch before it was even dark. “Sometimes more.” He nodded approval.
“When was your last seizure?” he was studying my pupils. I supposed he was checking for dilation (this wasn’t my first rodeo), until he said, “Hey… I can see myself in there, just real little bitty!” I searched my memory as far as it would go. “It’s been at least a month — I think…” Or was it two months — or two weeks — or yesterday? I had no idea. “Good enough.” he checked off on his notes.
He pulled my chart. “Looks like ole’ Dr. Drowze has you clicking on all cylinders! How’s that tic where your head jerks violently up and down? And the tongue swallowing thing, how’s that going?” I told him it was down to a brief but intense flurry right before I lose consciousness in the afternoon.
He checked “P.C. shows improvement”. I didn’t mention that I couldn’t say what happens after I take my medicine; but I did regain consciousness in my driveway the other night with empty Taco Bell burrito wrappers all over the floorboard.
His eyes darted back from the checklist to the chart to me. “It says in your file you owe Dr. Drowze a little dinero.” He eyed me suspiciously. I explained that it’d been bundled into an amortized payment schedule and if he looked at my available credit line, my account was in quite good standing — thank you. I wasn’t there to be bullied by a twenty-nine year old fresh out of Smart Tech. He thrust a packet of documents and a pen at me.
“Okay.” I declared, settling the matter at once. You don’t have to hold my hand for everything; and I began signing the documents straightway. “Just sign the highlighted spaces…” Huh, I thought: the young upstart is pointing at the great mound of papers, though I’m already signing them with no need for instruction…
Are you feeling okay?” he asked after about an hour, “You look a little pale.” I mustered up. “If I felt any better, it’d be illegal!” I quipped weakly as my fingers stiffened such that I couldn’t bend them; though I said this mainly to test his flexibility on the new drug regulations. “Just sign those papers and we’ll handle all that.” he said. “You should have that hand looked at by your health-team para-physician, though.”
I signed the highlighted spaces as he flipped the pages faster and faster. Wow! I hadn’t signed this many papers since I refinanced my house with Dr. Drowze and Associates at Smart Bank. My right hand was so puffy and swollen, my fingers were all cramped and knuckly. I convulsively stabbed at the pages, clutching the pen with one hand and my wrist with the other. My name was no longer legible. I pleaded for a break. “It’s just a little edema.” he assured, yet he kept staring at it.
I asked about the way my fingers were turning purple and throbbing. Was there a problem? I have anxieties about my body. He told me not to worry, rummaged around in his desk, and rattled several pill bottles. “You just get to your health-team para-physician.”
He looked cursorily at a vial and tossed it at me. “You signed that last waiver, didn’t you?” I was on the floor grimacing, and the pill bottle bounced off my face. “Sorry.” He got up and extended his hand but realized I was unable to take it and sat back down. “Ooo-kay, then. See ya in three days…”