Sitting in the small, relatively populated waiting room, I can feel my cheek twitching. As I type with my thumb on the touchscreen, using it as an excuse to avoid eye contact, I clear my throat and wonder if they’re judging me based on my shoes, which has quite a ventilation system going on. As for my one shoe, the top is hardly holding together with the soles at all. I really need to take care of that next paycheck.
Why am I so anxious? The appointment? Two pots of coffee in seven hours? Mild sleep deprivation? The unholy cocktail of them all? Fuck, just call my name already. I’m too twitchy to look up and I haven’t stopped typing on this goddamn iPhone since I sat down.
Ah, now the leg is going. Hyperawareness is moving in.
My name is called as she pokes her head from around the corner. Always kind, this woman — and in that authentic way that doesn’t make me nauseous. She makes small talk as she leads the way down the hall to the door of her office. Weather is her conversational default, like so many. It’s the cultural unisexual icebreaker.
After the verbal foreplay, we take our seats and she runs down the list of questions: any side effects from the Prozac or Buspar? No. Any suicidal thoughts? Not that I recall. Hallucinations? (Don’t hesitate). No. Sleeping? 4-6 hours. How is work? I cringe. I hate work. I have held it for over a decade, though.
How has my mood been overall? I feel like hell, but at a level closer to the surface, so that’s good.
Still doing nothing with my life, still in the same shit job, still haven’t been laid in three non-fucking years, still smoking pot on a daily basis, still engaging in chronic masturbating, still writing, currently uninspired with respect to artwork.
My life is at a standstill. I feel restless and agitated. Dependent and perhaps hopelessly insane. I don’t tell her this. Just that I’ve been feeling tense, agitated.
I think it may pass. I don’t want to increase the medication again, not yet.
Let this pass.