I Don't Have a Title for This One

The beta-blockers have swarmed over my mood -- gnawing on it like nothing I've experienced in years by engulfing me with the most primitive crying spells and desperate urges to die despite the means available. I have moments of rationale that tell me that this will not last, will surely pass, and that once it is over I can resume my previous state of misery.

Surprisingly, I decided to seek counsel with someone outside my normal realm: a therapist in a more public sector -- one covered by insurance as opposed to my usual fare of the private practice (aka, she's out of town). I know when I'm headed to the bad place and that any attempt to end my breathing will result in only making matters worse.

I told myself that this would be a good thing. After all, I only need to vent and seek reassurance during this trying phase so surely someone even semi-trained could give at least this.

I was wrong.

Of course I had expected that she would need to take the usual history and that there would be some paperwork but so much had escaped my memory as to how these soul-suckers operate.

Being upfront, I informed her that I already have a therapist but that she and her backup are out of town so what I needed today was someone to listen as I vented. The crone never let me get any further.

Before I knew it, I was being asked about my sexual behaviors and my marital separation when, at some point, she decided that she would solve my medical dilemma herself. What she would do, she claimed, was get all three of my doctors together on the phone and we would immediately resolve this beta-blocker-depression problem (at 4pm on a Friday).

After all the paperwork, there was no stopping her and it was clear that she had a mission beyond my control. She managed to get my psychiatrist on the conference call but could reach none others and sent me out to phone my internist and my cardiologist to inform them of the plan. I went to a phone and pretended to dial as she yammered at the psych doc. She did not even noticed that I never actually spoke to anyone on the phone but it didn't matter because it wasn't very long that she decided that my hour was up and I would have to resolve this at my next appointments.

I did not reschedule; however I was reminded of how I ended up in so many inpatient facilities growing up by being sent to these truly incompetent broken people controlled by paperwork and legal liabilities instead of care for their patient.

During my drive home, I received a call from the psych doc pretty much asking me WTF?

I dunno ... it did distract me from my misery but now it is nighttime and I am stuck here again feeling myself sliding into the pit again. Honestly, I did not think I would be here again and have never fully believed in the power of chemicals over one's depressive state. I've always believed that the way to be rid of depression was to confront the source and deal with it but between the beta-blockers and listening to my drunken (I hope) upstairs neighbor bellowing out "Sweet Home Alabaaaaammmmmaaa.." (again) I really dunno.