Psally Psychosis

Psparkles Psychosis (part I)

There was something about me he didn’t like. Well, I didn’t like anything at all about him. Of that I was certain. Those kind of eyes I don’t trust. The kind that dart away- scattersome… like roaches when the curtain lifts. Those make-me-nervous type eyes, those were the sort he had. Shifty-like. Unfond of meeting other eyes. Once self-certain, a hopeful young doctor, now a shell. Opaquely occluded with ghosts, for most of which, his mourning was vicarious. Once in a while shaken from his own ruminations, he actually listened, and heard the unfortunate lives most of his patients endured. Years of this emotional spew had deadened his interest wholly.

Still, I had to see him once a week, to continue getting my crazy pills prescribed. What the hell did he know, anyway? He was the one person, if there was any on earth, imbued with more of an antisocial personality than I have.

Bored, half-heartedly I wondered if the receptionist would fuss if just I got up out of my seat, and blatantly stole one of the noxiously cheery holiday decals off of the waiting room window…Maybe the stereotypical broken-capillaries of “rosy cheeked”… jolly, jiggly old anglo-saxon Santa… or maybe the tastefully vague “Happy Holidays” declaration. That one has sparkles. I love, love, love sparkles. Almost as much as I love an old cemetary.

But really, please do not phrase it as, “Happy Holidays…” Bold of you to tell me how my holidays should fucking feel. How pompously impositional. People have a rough go of this contrived, commercialized, forced economic boost. Religious observance is declining among the young, drugged and woke. So they say. Holiday. Pffft. I can’t be bothered. Just the same, I’m sure at some point a guy named Jesus existed, and apparently was a really chill, inclusive guy.

Really for all we know, Jesus was a psycho-genius. A charismatic culty character like Manson… just leading his sheep into a 4 sided canyon…gathering followers to do some unscrupulous bidding.

Like go give a sad person a hug or some crazy shit like that. Plant a tree. Pet a goat. Because- my man Jesus. He was cool like that…or so they say. We’ve not shaken hands yet, despite my standing invitation.

One thing I know to be gospel truth- Jesus never decreed to anyone, “Hark ye, blow ye rent on bullshit retail chatchka, and do adorn with glass idolatries a murdered coniferous tree.” I can’t see Jesus as a fan of deforestation. And he’d buy local for sure. Christmas just ain’t what it used to be.

Impatiently, I awaitied my 4pm “session” with the dislikable Dr. Bonick. Thoughts bounded about my brain like a warrenful of rabid, be-fanged bunnies. Too fast and to much effort to catch…It was beginning to sprinkle outside. The first grace of this day. Storm clouds held harsh hues of graphite and sharkskin, intermingling with the warmer rose grey of a wayward cumulonimbus…unpredictable skies. Raindrops pattered the windowpane in plumply rounded tears. The softly tit-tattering water brought with it a sluice of ease, inviting deep breath and nearly a state of calm.

Rogue rivers diverged and rejoined as they ran down the large modern style window. I traced them absently with my delicate fingers, not even half listening to the uninformed, myopic theoreticism relating to the problem that is me.

Delicate fingers can make a fist too. One too many of those fists held too high- or used in defense- brings on the labels. Violent. Anxious. “Out of control,” atypical psychotic. I’ve been diagnosed with more conflicting psychiatric afflictions than you could shake a twig at. Shitfire, more than you could shake a whole damn tree at. None of them are entirely accurate- nor wholly inaccurate. They’ve identified myself for me many times. All rather poorly.

Psychiatry is of course more of an art than a science; barring the organic brain and nerve structures. Good Dr. Bronick would’ve been better suited to studying the placid consistencies of Pythagorean theorum than the intricately woven traumas and triumphs that texture a mindscape. He checks boxes and take illegible notes. Personally, I think he’s madly scribbling drabble into a notebook for show. He’s also perfected the perfunctory “Mmmmhmmm,” paired with the affirmative head-nod. You could almost believe he’s invested in this hour. Almost. But not quite.

Why don’t they keep a clock in this damn room? Today’s session was like being dragged naked, through tar, down a trail of plucked chickens- in January. I realize I have my burdensome shortcomings and mostly manageable psychoses; but pray tell, how possibly could this Post Doctorate dullard with the countenance of an ill -tempered mole possess the breadth of compassion and understanding required to work with patients of such disturbingly inspirational, unique complexity.

Noting he hadn’t stopped his wild scribbles during my detached contemplation, I inquired as to what he was on about. Quickly lifting his gaze to mine, calculatedly adjusting his glasses, Bronick huffed, “Just notes.”

Back to the hypographic scribble. I knew it was within my rights to ask that he explain his epiphanic page filling, but I lacked interest in his deja vu, stuck in the box, “there is no truth outside the textbook” diagnostics. It’s never good to “have all the answers.”

There have been a thousand tests performed, upon my person, by all manner of psychia-trickery. From Freudian psychoanalysts to holistic therapists, my “maladies” (super powers?) remain speciously labeled , some expertly elude detection… They have weight and feel. They feel like some foreign liquid- no exact shape…and no name with which to aptly access or exorcise them. So, their reign goes unchallenged. My fate seems to be forever suspended in the embryonic fluid of insanity. Crazy lady here, till further notice.

Bronick- why didn’t you stick with dentistry? You switched to psychiatry as your specialty practice- over a girl who probably never even knew you were seated in the same room. Oh but the piercing sweetness of her Gardenia perfume…he could never forget. While sitting behind her for a whole semester…how desperately he wished to stroke that softly taunting chocolate colored curl…of course, he never did.

Regretful. Curmudgeonly for a man of late middle age, enshrouded by burdensome shadows. Doggedly trudging through their oppression. He dragged them along…like the intestines of a gutted man walking. Though his bells were silent- they raucously rang and rattled to those few alert observant few- the few who knew.

Shaking unwelcome feelings from his head, and without acknowledging the end of our session, Bronick opened up his top desk drawer, and pulled out a prescription pad. More Xanax. More Klonopin. More myelin sheath degradation. No it’s fine, medicate my brain into a jellied crimson and porpoise grey compote. Who am I to deny big pharma more money?

Leaving his office, we exchanged a cursory parting nod... He placed the scripts in my hand with an unexpected hippocratic tenderness I never knew he had. Momentarily thankful he was indeed human, I tucked them ankle-deep in my waterproof boot. Shoving wide open the heavy front door; into the chilling deluge, I plunged.