Tuesday, March 07, 2006
How I Busted Myself Out of the Hospital Today
So I had to go see my Pshrink today, with the goal that today I am going to sit him down and tell him to smarten up. I'm fed up with feeling like crap for two days after I see him. That I find him inconsiderate, and that I've been seeing since last June and nothing's happened, except that I am convinced after every session that I was right, that I really am useless. And that I'm very confused as to how it can all be my workaholic husband's fault, according to him, that if my man came home at 5 every day I wouldn't be depressed, but that depression is a largely unknown condition with no definitive test. But that the term "chemical imbalance" was invented by drug companies to sell more crank. But that all I have to do is say the word and he'll write me up another prescription. I know the pshrink can't fix me. I know I have to fix myself blah blah blah, but it's all very informative and so far has accomplished nothing except to further erode my fragile self esteem. Blah blah blah.
After the session I was still confused but my lovely Dr. Frankenbushyeyebrows asked me if I wanted to continue with this. I waved my three pages of complaints and replied, "On my terms." Nuff said. He gets another crack at sorting through my twisted mind. On my terms.
One of the great ironies of getting the government paid pshrink is that he is located at the hospital, in the Adult Mental Health Outpatient Department. The Amhop. If it was a restaurant, you wouldn't want to eat there. In the year that I have been attending these sessions, the parking lot has been rearranged about six times. I wish I was exaggerating. Worst of all, it is now 100% truck-unfriendly. During the heavy duty construction, I must say, I was laughing. I parked with the contractors. For free. Who would argue with me? I'd get out of the truck in my pink T shirt and denim skirt and scurry into the building before any of the hard hat guys noticed, although I can't see why they'd care. Now, they've got barricades up and stern signs warning contractors that parking is prohibited, towed at your own expense and blah blah blah. So I gingerly steer my truck into the parking lot. I delicately park it.
After being talked at by my pshrink, I walked up to the pay station inside the building with my ticket. I stuck it in the "ticket here" slot. The little screen said, "ticket rejected". With much eyerolling and a building chest pain, I stomped out to the truck, deciding to pay at the gate with my credit card. Gate one. Stick card in. "Credit card rejected." YOU %#$^ER!
I stuck it in reverse and went over to Gate two, muttering profanities the whole time. I find that helps dissipate the anxiety. Stick card in. "Credit card rejected." I think I said something along the lines of "F, f-itty f, f, off" only with more letters. There was a fancy white Lexus suv behind me. I put it in reverse again. I backed up just far enough to not hit Lexus boy. Man was that thing shiny. I eyed the barrier. What is that thing made of? Aluminum? That's no match. It would scratch up the paint though. I can't screw up my Dad's nice paint job. I just can't. But you know what I can do????
I put it in drive. I aimed the flat non-aerodynamic front of my truck at the space between the barrier and the cement curb. Was there enough room to get through? Oh no. Not nearly enough. But I'm not driving some wimpy ass little Lexus, am I? Oh no, I'm driving a truck. And she's about to earn her keep.
The right tire rode up the curb and I stepped into it. Way up onto the snowbank we went, on such an angle that for a second, just a fleeting second, I thought about the possibility of rolling right over onto the driver's side, not only taking out that barrier, but really, really, screwing up that paint. I steered her straight, looked in my mirror to see the barrier getting close to the box. I had to start turning or I'd end up in the ditch. No 4 wheel drive. I felt the back tire skip along the curb as the rubber edge of the barrier lightly rubbed against the box of the truck, and then all 8 ft of truck box was clear, and away I went.
"Ha! Bite me Blahblahblahville Regional Hospital!" I crowed through my open window. "Whaddaya think of that Dr Bushenfrankyeyeballs?!!! Bite me Lexus Loser!"
Ever had that adrenaline dump, when you can feel the stuff coursing through your body? I had that. I kind of enjoy that feeling, to be honest. But you see, as much as I put up an automatic rebellion to any kind of authority, I am still a good little pacifistic Mennonite girl and I know that I probably shouldn't do things like that. But I did it. I liked it. And I felt pretty damn good about it.
All the way through town I wondered if the Parking Cops would come and get me. Actually I was convinced I'd be running from The Fuzz in a matter of minutes, but that's nothing new for me. I spend most of my driving time convinced that The Fuzz are out to get me. Part of the panic thing? Who knows. Who cares. I got back to my town, where I hit the car wash and scrubbed the rubber streak off my truck. Then I had a very nice day.