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Concerned for my health, I went to the doctor today. This is something I almost never do, for a variety of reasons which mostly boil down to "why should I go to the doctor? They're just going to tell me to drink liquids and get plenty of rest, and possibly give me medication that I'm not likely to take." But this time, my symptoms were bizarre enough that I figured I should check -- just in case -- to see if I was dying, or something equally inconvenient.
This is my typical doctor's office visit:
/INTERIOR, DOCTOR'S OFFICE, DAY. At NURSE 1's behest, ROMIE rattles off a list of SYMPTOMS. NURSE 1 exits. NURSE 2 enters, demands list of symptoms. ROMIE complies, NURSE 2 writes SYMPTOMS down and EXITS. NURSE 3 enters with PAPERWORK on which ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS. NURSE 3 exits. DOCTOR enters/
DOCTOR: So, what's wrong?
/ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS/
DOCTOR: It's probably not serious, but we'll do some blood work. I mean, those really could be anything. Mostly, I'd lie down and drink some liquids.
ROMIE: That's pretty much what I thought. Can I have a note for my school?
DOCTOR: Sure; talk to the receptionist on the way out. Oh, by the way, are you insane?
ROMIE: (suspiciously) What gives you that impression?
DOCTOR: I don't know. Just a hunch. Would you like me to refer you to a psychologist?
ROMIE: No thanks.
DOCTOR: Okay, then. Have fun!
/END./
My new doctor, however, was a bit different.
/INTERIOR, DOCTOR'S OFFICE, DAY. At NURSE 1's behest, ROMIE rattles off a list of SYMPTOMS. NURSE 1 exits. NURSE 2 enters, demands list of symptoms. ROMIE complies, NURSE 2 writes SYMPTOMS down and EXITS. NURSE 3 enters with PAPERWORK on which ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS. NURSE 3 exits. DOCTOR enters/
DOCTOR: So, what's wrong?
/ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS/
DOCTOR: How close are you to your family?
ROMIE: (startled) What?
DOCTOR: Do you get along with them?
ROMIE: (recovering) Um. . . yeah.
DOCTOR: I ask because, well, are you insane?
ROMIE: [sighs]
DOCTOR: All of this just seems like an extreme stress reaction. I mean an extreme stress reaction. State of shock. Extremely pale, low blood pressure, low temperature, dizziness, shaking, inability to focus, irregular sleep patterns. . . What the hell have you been doing?
ROMIE: I've had midterms, I guess. . . (blythely) Well, I'll be going, then.
DOCTOR: Seriously. Psychiatrist?
ROMIE: I'm fine.
DOCTOR: (brightly) Okay. But just so you know, it is my professional opinion that you are ill because your father does not want you to join the circus and also because you can't find pants. Take some Sudafed, though.
ROMIE: (grudgingly) Okay.
So, there you have it. Official medical opinion, and I kid you not. My body has actually decided to shut down because I am under too much stress. This all makes me rather smug, in a gallows-humor I-told-you-so kind of way, but it also irritates me. Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about it, because I hate that my body can trick me like this.
ROMIE: (stoically) Yes, I am miserable, but I choose to be happy anyway, because there's really nothing I can do about it. I'll be fine.
ROMIE'S INNER EAR: Like hell. I'm going to knock you out for a few days, and probably make the situation worse just to prove to you that it's bad.
ROMIE: I want to rip out all of my teeth.
ROMIE'S INNER EAR: That's the spirit!
It's really. . . I'm not okay. I'm just not, and I know that. I'm charming, and I'm plesant, and I can make a joke out of it all, but things are bad for me right now, with no hope of getting better in the short run (which is defined in business cycles as six months and in economic parlance as the remainder of this school term). There are basic things I need that I don't have, like pants and dishwashing detergent and notebook paper -- not because I can't afford them, but because I can't find them, and I'm tired of looking.
I have money again -- a working bank card, that is -- but I am not secure in the knowledge that it will continue to be so, given computers' capricious nature regarding my accounts. I vascillate between wanting to spend a lot of money right now and stockpile and wanting to spend as little money as possible in case some of it suddenly disappears.
My classes are worthless. I enjoy some of them, but they are. There are very few things that I don't already know, and those I could take from the text book as easily as the professor, even if I like some of the professors. The work is laughably easy, and the classes little more than time-consuming. I'm learning nothing, and I don't even have the time to learn things on my own.
My commute is ridiculous, and I am perpetually late due to erratic construction and my fellow travellers' laughable driving skills. 14 hours a week on the highway, I'm mostly on narrow two lane roads in a little car tailed by very fast trucks with a tendency to tailgate. Every day, I am faced with the decision of whether to speed -- it ups my chances of hitting the car in front of me or being pushed off a bridge by heavy winds, but it decreases the likelihood that one of the trucks behind me will kill me. Because they would, trucks and SUVs. I've read enough consumer reports, and taken enough physics. I'd be beheaded. I saw a cheerful sign yesterday that read "We caught over 6000 drivers running red lights in Plano last year!" How reassuring.
I live in the suburbs, in yuppie central, and it's terrifying. Horrifying, grotesque, miserable. My apartment feels like a tomb no matter what I do -- no matter the art covering the walls, the bright fabrics, the chinese lamps, the dozens of potted plants, the musical instruments. It depresses me to come home, and yet I am terrified to leave it for something even so simple as a grosto run. It just takes so much effort, and the rooms are so . . . silent is the wrong word, because there's a constant electrical hum. Overbearing? Oppressive?
My friends are all very far away from me. Val is the sole exception, and we've been depending on each other so much that we're starting to hit a rut. Because we're very different people. Very different people. We understand each other, and love each other, but we have wildly divergent ideas of a good time. And that's fine as long as there are other people to make up the difference, but there aren't. Nor are there art museums, block parties, outdoor markets, and pleasant places to walk. Anything that I want to do requires getting in a car, even taking out the trash.
I hate America. Or it's better said that I hate living in America. Love the history. Love the Constitution so much that I carry it around with me everywhere I go, and have most of it memorized. But it hit me the other day that I don't need to leave just temporarily -- I need to leave permanently. This came to me during an economics paper which turned into a nine page rant about American attitudes toward work and a dystopic (but nevertheless accurate) description of corporate culture. I. Can't. Do. This. Any. More. Not only do I not have a home -- I don't have a home country. Which brings up all kinds of interesting questions about citizenship and tax codes -- both where I would want citizenship and where I could get it, which is a lot more difficult with the new economic unity of the EU.
Because as much as my life seems driven by whimsy, it cannot be denied that I Tend To Know What I'm Talking About.
My father is really worried about my plan to join the circus. I'm not worried, but it hurts me to know that I'm hurting him when I love him more than just about anybody. And he's being really reasonable, too. Presenting exactly the right arguments about how I'm going to afford it, savings, and medical since once I'm out of school and off his insurance (and he has no choice in the matter). He's not angry, or forbidding, just very matter-of-fact. He thinks I should go into auditing -- lots of travel, lots of money, and a very interesting field. (Seriously, it is. I like auditors; they're like detectives. My dad's an auditor.)
Mom thinks it's a good idea too. I had to sit her down and say "look, you don't understand. I'll kill myself if I'm behind a desk all day, even if it's somebody else's desk. And whether an office is here or in Kuala Lampor, it's still an office." Well, she offered, what happened to going into film? I had to remind her that film or the circus, I'm still a waitress, and at least there's less competition in the circus world.
Plus I'm a writer. How funny is that? "I'm a writer." Everyone thinks she's a writer. I know I'm better than most -- maybe all -- of them, but I'm sure they know that about themselves too. Even if they're wrong and I'm right, it still means I have to wade through the morass of people who don't take me seriously because I'm grouped with people who shouldn't be taken seriously. Who don't have anything to say, seriously or otherwise. And so I can't take the time that I need because people laugh at me and say I don't work. Say I've never had a serious job in my life because music doesn't count, writing doesn't count, acting doesn't count.
And there are so many other problems, including what is generally regarded as my tenuous sanity. I think I'm doing pretty well on that count, actually, but it irritates me that other people could institutionalize me if they wanted to. It irritates me that it's so plausible that I'm insane that I could be carted off with very little preamble. Even though I'm not insane. I just refuse to accept what I'm told should make me happy.
Although technically, I think that is insanity.
But it's the world that's fucked up, not me.
Not Me.
This is my typical doctor's office visit:
/INTERIOR, DOCTOR'S OFFICE, DAY. At NURSE 1's behest, ROMIE rattles off a list of SYMPTOMS. NURSE 1 exits. NURSE 2 enters, demands list of symptoms. ROMIE complies, NURSE 2 writes SYMPTOMS down and EXITS. NURSE 3 enters with PAPERWORK on which ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS. NURSE 3 exits. DOCTOR enters/
DOCTOR: So, what's wrong?
/ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS/
DOCTOR: It's probably not serious, but we'll do some blood work. I mean, those really could be anything. Mostly, I'd lie down and drink some liquids.
ROMIE: That's pretty much what I thought. Can I have a note for my school?
DOCTOR: Sure; talk to the receptionist on the way out. Oh, by the way, are you insane?
ROMIE: (suspiciously) What gives you that impression?
DOCTOR: I don't know. Just a hunch. Would you like me to refer you to a psychologist?
ROMIE: No thanks.
DOCTOR: Okay, then. Have fun!
/END./
My new doctor, however, was a bit different.
/INTERIOR, DOCTOR'S OFFICE, DAY. At NURSE 1's behest, ROMIE rattles off a list of SYMPTOMS. NURSE 1 exits. NURSE 2 enters, demands list of symptoms. ROMIE complies, NURSE 2 writes SYMPTOMS down and EXITS. NURSE 3 enters with PAPERWORK on which ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS. NURSE 3 exits. DOCTOR enters/
DOCTOR: So, what's wrong?
/ROMIE lists SYMPTOMS/
DOCTOR: How close are you to your family?
ROMIE: (startled) What?
DOCTOR: Do you get along with them?
ROMIE: (recovering) Um. . . yeah.
DOCTOR: I ask because, well, are you insane?
ROMIE: [sighs]
DOCTOR: All of this just seems like an extreme stress reaction. I mean an extreme stress reaction. State of shock. Extremely pale, low blood pressure, low temperature, dizziness, shaking, inability to focus, irregular sleep patterns. . . What the hell have you been doing?
ROMIE: I've had midterms, I guess. . . (blythely) Well, I'll be going, then.
DOCTOR: Seriously. Psychiatrist?
ROMIE: I'm fine.
DOCTOR: (brightly) Okay. But just so you know, it is my professional opinion that you are ill because your father does not want you to join the circus and also because you can't find pants. Take some Sudafed, though.
ROMIE: (grudgingly) Okay.
So, there you have it. Official medical opinion, and I kid you not. My body has actually decided to shut down because I am under too much stress. This all makes me rather smug, in a gallows-humor I-told-you-so kind of way, but it also irritates me. Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about it, because I hate that my body can trick me like this.
ROMIE: (stoically) Yes, I am miserable, but I choose to be happy anyway, because there's really nothing I can do about it. I'll be fine.
ROMIE'S INNER EAR: Like hell. I'm going to knock you out for a few days, and probably make the situation worse just to prove to you that it's bad.
ROMIE: I want to rip out all of my teeth.
ROMIE'S INNER EAR: That's the spirit!
It's really. . . I'm not okay. I'm just not, and I know that. I'm charming, and I'm plesant, and I can make a joke out of it all, but things are bad for me right now, with no hope of getting better in the short run (which is defined in business cycles as six months and in economic parlance as the remainder of this school term). There are basic things I need that I don't have, like pants and dishwashing detergent and notebook paper -- not because I can't afford them, but because I can't find them, and I'm tired of looking.
I have money again -- a working bank card, that is -- but I am not secure in the knowledge that it will continue to be so, given computers' capricious nature regarding my accounts. I vascillate between wanting to spend a lot of money right now and stockpile and wanting to spend as little money as possible in case some of it suddenly disappears.
My classes are worthless. I enjoy some of them, but they are. There are very few things that I don't already know, and those I could take from the text book as easily as the professor, even if I like some of the professors. The work is laughably easy, and the classes little more than time-consuming. I'm learning nothing, and I don't even have the time to learn things on my own.
My commute is ridiculous, and I am perpetually late due to erratic construction and my fellow travellers' laughable driving skills. 14 hours a week on the highway, I'm mostly on narrow two lane roads in a little car tailed by very fast trucks with a tendency to tailgate. Every day, I am faced with the decision of whether to speed -- it ups my chances of hitting the car in front of me or being pushed off a bridge by heavy winds, but it decreases the likelihood that one of the trucks behind me will kill me. Because they would, trucks and SUVs. I've read enough consumer reports, and taken enough physics. I'd be beheaded. I saw a cheerful sign yesterday that read "We caught over 6000 drivers running red lights in Plano last year!" How reassuring.
I live in the suburbs, in yuppie central, and it's terrifying. Horrifying, grotesque, miserable. My apartment feels like a tomb no matter what I do -- no matter the art covering the walls, the bright fabrics, the chinese lamps, the dozens of potted plants, the musical instruments. It depresses me to come home, and yet I am terrified to leave it for something even so simple as a grosto run. It just takes so much effort, and the rooms are so . . . silent is the wrong word, because there's a constant electrical hum. Overbearing? Oppressive?
My friends are all very far away from me. Val is the sole exception, and we've been depending on each other so much that we're starting to hit a rut. Because we're very different people. Very different people. We understand each other, and love each other, but we have wildly divergent ideas of a good time. And that's fine as long as there are other people to make up the difference, but there aren't. Nor are there art museums, block parties, outdoor markets, and pleasant places to walk. Anything that I want to do requires getting in a car, even taking out the trash.
I hate America. Or it's better said that I hate living in America. Love the history. Love the Constitution so much that I carry it around with me everywhere I go, and have most of it memorized. But it hit me the other day that I don't need to leave just temporarily -- I need to leave permanently. This came to me during an economics paper which turned into a nine page rant about American attitudes toward work and a dystopic (but nevertheless accurate) description of corporate culture. I. Can't. Do. This. Any. More. Not only do I not have a home -- I don't have a home country. Which brings up all kinds of interesting questions about citizenship and tax codes -- both where I would want citizenship and where I could get it, which is a lot more difficult with the new economic unity of the EU.
Because as much as my life seems driven by whimsy, it cannot be denied that I Tend To Know What I'm Talking About.
My father is really worried about my plan to join the circus. I'm not worried, but it hurts me to know that I'm hurting him when I love him more than just about anybody. And he's being really reasonable, too. Presenting exactly the right arguments about how I'm going to afford it, savings, and medical since once I'm out of school and off his insurance (and he has no choice in the matter). He's not angry, or forbidding, just very matter-of-fact. He thinks I should go into auditing -- lots of travel, lots of money, and a very interesting field. (Seriously, it is. I like auditors; they're like detectives. My dad's an auditor.)
Mom thinks it's a good idea too. I had to sit her down and say "look, you don't understand. I'll kill myself if I'm behind a desk all day, even if it's somebody else's desk. And whether an office is here or in Kuala Lampor, it's still an office." Well, she offered, what happened to going into film? I had to remind her that film or the circus, I'm still a waitress, and at least there's less competition in the circus world.
Plus I'm a writer. How funny is that? "I'm a writer." Everyone thinks she's a writer. I know I'm better than most -- maybe all -- of them, but I'm sure they know that about themselves too. Even if they're wrong and I'm right, it still means I have to wade through the morass of people who don't take me seriously because I'm grouped with people who shouldn't be taken seriously. Who don't have anything to say, seriously or otherwise. And so I can't take the time that I need because people laugh at me and say I don't work. Say I've never had a serious job in my life because music doesn't count, writing doesn't count, acting doesn't count.
And there are so many other problems, including what is generally regarded as my tenuous sanity. I think I'm doing pretty well on that count, actually, but it irritates me that other people could institutionalize me if they wanted to. It irritates me that it's so plausible that I'm insane that I could be carted off with very little preamble. Even though I'm not insane. I just refuse to accept what I'm told should make me happy.
Although technically, I think that is insanity.
But it's the world that's fucked up, not me.
Not Me.
