Often, I put one song on repeat so it etches itself into my brain. I can then sing lustily and loudly in the car and be assured I won't mangle the words, at any rate. Thursday's song for the day? Get in Line. And can you think of a better song to belt in the car on the way to the psychiatrist?
Whatever could they want from me?
Is it just a part of a giant government conspiracy?
I gotta go see my doctor about this itchy pentagram-shaped rash
Sigh, yes, Thursday I went to the (clench teeth) psychiatrist. (unclench teeth.)
I'll blithely tell you I went to the urologist, turdologist, boobiatrist, and any other specialist embarrassing to discuss. But the (grit teeth) psychiatrist? (spit, unclench.) The doctor that proves I'm crazy? Not comical wacky crazy. Disturbed crazy? No, I don't like admitting that.
I think a large part of it stems from for many years not knowing the difference between psychologists and psychiatrists. Some people think they are the same, or that the only difference is that only one can prescribe medicine. But no no no. Psychologists are the ones who blame your mother. Psychiatrists don't care about your mother. If they ask about your mom, it's only because they spend half an hour observing you for twitches and sweating and crazy eye-rolling, and that can get awkward without chit-chat.
But here's my dodge. From now on I'm calling him my neuropsychiatrist. I can call him that, and I should, because that is his title. Also, somehow I feel the "neuro" prefix shifts the blame from me to my neurons, being nibbled away by my immune system. Oh! I could call him my neuropsychiatric multiple sclerosis psychospecialist.
Dictate a memo to myself
Try to find if I'm the only one in complete health
Consult contemporaries if there are some to see
There really isn't anyone who's in my league