Therapy

I'm back. Please note, my arm pits are now medicated, and have not itched since I slathered, (like cream cheese on a bagel) the medicated ointment on. I whisper thanks to the ointment God in the sky.
Lemme start at the beginning. I get there, find out I make too much to qualify for sliding scale fees. So I slap down the 15.00 co-pay, and wait. Waiting, for me, is the worst part. You begin thumbing through month old magazines, where the address is cut out of the front. You realise that you remember when Al Gore received his little statue guy, and was pressed to announce his candidacy for Pres. You realise Family Circle is hell on an empty stomach. But you can't put the stupid thing down-because some foreign sticky substance has glued you to it.
Not only that, but you get some "creepy" types down at the clinic. Such as: grumpy man who took many much hydros, and doesn't get his refill for a few days. Unfortunately, because of substance control regulations, he gets to lay in pain for a few days until it's time to get them refilled. I felt bad for the guy, but it's not like I can do anything. After all, I've got this rash, see, and my hands are firmly cemented to pages 9 and 10 of Family Circle.
Finally, this nurse guy comes out, and all I can think is....dude...take off the scrubs and join the NFL as a linebacker. This guy is built like a friggin brick. Not old either-and his deep voice made me think of Michael Clarke Duncan. Except he's white. So Tonto takes me to get weighed-a traitorous way to make any sick woman feel better. Especially since this one is getting married, AND is on the depo shot. I gained 15 pounds. Now I'm itchy, depressed, and feeling like a jelly donut. We continue the journey to the room.
In the room, he stood, legs spread like he was ready to do battle. He raised his HUGE hands, and delicately started punching keys. Can anyone say how much of an oxymoron this guy is? He shoots questions at me like I'm being questioned by the police.
"How tall are you?"
"Any epilepsy? Seizures?"
"You got a family, shrimp?" (Yeah, he called me shrimp the ENTIRE time)
Finally, mercifully, after answering all the questions, he tells me in a You-will-do-this-cheerfully-or-I-will-chew-you-like-gum attitude that it's time for a depression evaluation.
A kind of a jolt hit me-and I realised I needed to be super honest about this. I was tired of being angry for no reason. And then sad. And then frustrated. And always, always, always, the underlying current of exhaustion.
I was honest. Tonto did not "soften" per say, (I doubt a man in his....body...could) but he did speak more kindly to me. After the questionnaire was over, which I felt was answered very honestly, he looked me in the eyes, and said "Shrimp, we've gotta get you on something. You're killing me here." He lectured me on how depression can cause all sorts of weird illnesses.
Then he released me, allowing my doctor to take over.
Martha was a generously sized woman, and she had the most ruddy cheeks I had ever seen in my entire life. She came in, looked at my results, and advised me that I was offered counseling and Wellbutrin. I took the drugs, AND the counseling. And the ointment. The ointment is more of a protective film on steroids. Literally. Steroids that help stop the inflaming, the puffiness, and the itching. Oh, bless steroids for taking my itchy pits away.
So I go to the pharmacy, which is down the hall, and I ask them to fill said prescriptions. I am told, courteously, by a woman who's eyes were hidden under the shaggiest of brown bangs, that they will be ready in 15 minutes. I sit, and eye the magazines dubiously.
Remember the creepy types? Well, there's also the scary types: A man dressed in gangsta, wearing a red, fuzzy jumpsuit. And three kids followed him in. Kid One:Female. Wearing the latest styles, and sporting cornrows. She was going in for dental work. The DA came out to grab her, when the man said "All she needs is drugs, lady." The DA says, "I will take an X-Ray and find out." Grumbling, Fuzz-Suit sits down across from me. And so do his kids. He eyes me dubiously.
Let me clarify something:We have a low black population in Spokane. I don't blame them: Aryan Nations lives NEXT DOOR. Nevertheless, I was unprepared...mentally...to have an obviously world-hardened black man with three kids, one sporting a tooth ache, on sporting a fro, and one sporting a cutsie lil fuzz suit like her daddy staring at me.
Then his phone rings. Not even three minutes later, that phone dies. Just as I tense up to grab a sticky magazine, to at least shield the force of their stares, he pulls out three other phones. All trac-phones. And starts calling people.
Now I dunno about you-but when a guy in our neighborhood has several black phones, he's asking "Li'l Andy" about "the stash" and warning him to not "mess the client, yo, I'm getting a clearer picture that I've a dealer sitting across from me-making a deal on the phone, and glaring at me as if I ought to do something. ANYTHING.
Luckily for me, my prescription was filled. Erich was waiting to collect me, so I breezed out the front door, and ran to the car.
SO. I got a lot done today. Fixed a lot of things, and made a lot of differences in my world.
I took my first pill at one, got loopy, bought groceries, and snuggled in bed with Erich, while the outside world stormed around me.
And you know what? I finally feel as if I can see a glimmer of light at the end of this dark tunnel that I fell into.
I am so excited about being free.