psychiatrist office

Bipolar is the Game

The waiting room in the psychiatrist’s office

Is not the place to giggle.

I think about the juice head that is surely here for rage problems,

How he cut me off in the parking lot

And almost spilled his jamba juice in the process,

His face purple from screaming.

I look over at the woman

Who is seemingly always here,

Her caretaker and that permanent frown.

The woman who is in a club dress

With ugg boots in the middle of July.

And they think I’m crazy.

But the thing is,

I am.

I’m sitting in a waiting room,

Thinking about pick-up lines

Should the opportunity ever arise.

“Hey, I really like the dark circles under your eyes. It really brings out the crazy.”

They always make you fill out these progress notes,

I never take them seriously.

What is going well for you today?

I made it here in one piece.

What is not going well for you today?

Traffic.

The whole act of going to a pdoc is strange.

You sit in front of a stranger

Who is a politician with a medical degree.

Everything about you condensed into 10 pages

Of charts and medical history.

Your brain,

And how much you deeply mourn your last dog,

In a neat little packet.

The stereotype of lying down is so wrong.

That person must have stumbled into a massage parlor instead.

All I get are two chairs that are brown,

Are warm from other people’s asses,

Reek of the ghosts of long passed gas,

And sound like farts when you sit down.

psychiatrist office
“They always make you fill out these progress notes, I never take them seriously.” Photo from: https://st.hzcdn.com/fimgs/9f21d7040a942e70_6660-w496-h316-b0-p0–home-design.jpg

Doc lets out a heavy sigh.

I’m pretty sure that he hates me.

His eyes remind me of Leon Russell,

Could be stoned,

Could be indifferent.

I hold my breath

So I don’t giggle.

I have a nervous giggle,

An excited giggle,

And an avoidance of eye contact.

His scornful looks bore into me.

Yes, I’ve been taking the Lamictal.

Seroquel?

There goes my train of thought.

The image of me slumped over a desk,

Drooling over Scriabin’s greatest hits,

Reminds me why I hid those.

Honesty is his policy,

But I’m the best actress.

Putting on my Julie Andrews smile

Doesn’t rid his disappointed look from my mind.

And my brain is the only one I have,

Chemical imbalance and all.

I’m constantly pogo-sticking through a minefield.

He has to be an artist,

Chipping away at the veiny parts

Until there is nothing but smooth marble left.