Lie still with your eyes closed. Treatment begins in five, four, three, two, one. Treatment begins now.
– The Eggbeater
I don’t fall asleep again. My alpha waves providing a willing conduit for the low-frequency electromagnetism passing out of the machine, the veritable egg with blue beak.
I use the blanket though. Sit up fast when the session is over. Any concerns? I don’t want to slow the doctor from his important tasks.
But I’ve been reading “Unhinged.” Coming to terms with how little psychiatry knows about the drugs they distribute, the illnesses we harbor. I’ve been surprised to read the muckraking author Dr. Carlat confess to accepting the free Starbucks (that full meals are delivered to his receptionist) from the drug company reps even as he unmasks far deeper concerns. Troubled to see thoughts and feelings ascribed to mere chemical processes; there is no walking back of those chemical processes to an outflow of our consciousness.
We are our own psychiatry. Nothing less.
There are 10,000 genetic sequences that lead to schizophrenia, Carlat writes. A lack of understanding, even, about what causes depression. There are hunches and the observation that follows drug ingestion. We have yet to integrate biology into psychiatry, much less, I think, recognize our emotional and electrical bodies. We have yet to learn — much less teach others — to think as the creators of our conditions, as the only ones able (frequently after drugs have stabilized our fragile selves) to walk ourselves back from the precipice.
The only ones capable of discovering the language we need to keep the Beast at bay.
Like so many mental-health bloggers, I couldn’t resist a trip to Side Effects. Jude Law as psychiatry’s new normal: where the high-dollar couch has become a showpiece. You don’t get comfortable here. This is fast-draw shrinkage, followed by a question or two, followed by a referral to someone who has actually been trained in unraveling the unspoken beliefs that underlie and support the feelings and behavior. Only Law gave no referral.
Therapy? What time is therapy? Audiences don’t need no stinkin’ therapy.
The eggbeater says my session is complete. Doctor wants to make sure 30 minutes of head vibrating haven’t left me stewing over any questions or concerns.
I confess I have none. No questions. No concerns. Nothing for him. Not for the hardware.
But I would like to borrow this blanket.