Monday, July 1, 2019

The cavalry is coming, but they're going to be slow to arrive.

"Is that... what's happening now?"

I held my hands out; palms up and shook yes. Frustrated to a meltdown. The last crumb of smashed glass in the road, which rain so far has failed to wash away.

I walked into the therapy office in high spirits, sober again for a few days, and having ridden a bicycle like a bird in flight to get there. I changed in the bathroom upon arrival. I put on my one shirt with buttons. Sweat immediately made circles, which spread and met everywhere. Sweat is ok, I said, we all know Texas is hot.

I did a fine job of introducing myself. I was an intelligent boy with a beard - worth helping, worth medicating. An alcoholic - sure, it's in the notes, but I'm picking myself up, you can see. An optimist! A person seeking light! Hell, I went to church this week.

Fifteen minutes into the appointment, I had to admit that I wasn't sure why I was there. It had been explained to me twice at the behavioral intake appointment what the next steps were. I had asked for a slower and simpler recap of what I was supposed to do, and the kind person there went through it again patiently. I felt too embarrassed to ask for a third run-through, and I didn't ask that we write it down so we could review it with written words. I arranged an appointment before leaving - the next step - but couldn't remember what the appointment was for, or how that piece fit into the puzzle of me trying to get access to my meds again.

The therapist explained the process again, and again I felt like I understood. I was there for talk therapy. I would need to wait for a psychiatrist who can prescribe Adderall - if they feel like it. The therapist checked their computer: I had no appointment for a psychiatrist. I was supposed to get a call, but nobody had called in the week since the intake appointment. We walked to the front desk together to sort this out - by now it was becoming clear that I was a lost child and I needed some help. The next available appointment was in two months. Two months until I might get the meds which make an enormous improvement to my life. There was talk of phone calls and what sounded like badgering people, and I began to feel clouded and upset. Sensing this, or maybe responding to loud echoing cues, the therapist asked if I would like to talk about it in private instead of publicly at the front desk. I shook my head yes.

I explained that my partner had helped me move my insurance to Texas, and that they were better at knowing what I was supposed to be doing, but that I couldn't keep having crying meltdowns in front of them.

"Is that... what's happening now?"

Fuck yes that's what is happening. I should have arrived wearing a clown suit so we could cut to the chase. I had already stated as a fact for the record that my shit was all fucked up. Time was up like fifteen minutes ago, but the kindest therapist on the planet said she didn't mind because she didn't have an appointment after mine. We used her computer to sign into my account with my insurance provider. She explained a few things slowly, and wrote the important parts on a piece of pink paper which I lost.

I told myself this later: "The cavalry is coming, but they're going to be slow to arrive." I like that. You can use that if you want.

1) Try not to get drunk
2) Ride a bicycle more
3) Smoke a little weed and work slowly
4) Turn up the volume and bounce with it


tim joe comstock said...

Get out of there. You chose the street. It ain't for the meek. As the years go by it gets harder and harder to retreat back home to normal and you, with your entitlement, it must seem like an abyss,,,for the rest of us, guys like you are...ah hell chris, I admire your art...but fuck dude, imagine all this if your parents were dead and you were disinherited. What if a child depended on you? Would you be able to care for another creature, a child or a puppy?

Later, dude


Pixy Stoneskipper said...

Hey dude. I'm not really sure exactly what you're saying. And this blog is kind of a shit show. I'm renting a room in a pretty run down friend-owned house with no lease. It's a great spot, and probably saves me money over living in a van. Plus it's 100 degrees out regularly, so vanning is tough for the summer. Sometimes I wonder - if I didn't have all the privilege and living parents, would I be living a better badassed life, or working a service job to survive. In whatever case, you are one of like three people who ever reads this nonsense. Wishing you well in any case at all - Chris

webZplus said...

Hey I just thought I would jump in say I read ALL your stuff, I started following because of the Tiny House, went back and read the older stuff, and read your latest stuff almost as it happens, I can relate to some of it, find some of it touching and some of makes me smile, anyway kudos to you Chris - Regards John (Australia)

tim joe comstock said...

Oh Chris it just me lashing out left-handed like the bitter old man that I have become. Ignore me. But that opening passage was as brilliant a piece of work as I have read in many years, and I read a lot. Just beautiful and adroit and as a miserable cur who has spent his life hacking out a meager existence as a service worker I suppose...

Aw fuck it. I had an idea once (I think I told you) about a story about your cross country trip and your symbiotic relationship with that office dude Jeff (?). I was following his journey on CGOAB and finally contacted him to find out who this Chris guy was. And hence found my way to you.

It would kick Zen and the Art right in the ass. The scene of the wreck (I'm working from a highly dysfunctional memory) where you rear-ended him or he rear-ended you...

Christ. I'm babbling. My Ol'Lady of fourteen years moved out last night while I was passed out and drooling on my pillow. People constantly tell me I should write a book but I spend ten hours a day hacking out etc...

yer constant friend old tim joe