by Fegger

Created on: March 06, 2009

Fegger: The Psychiatrist's Nightmare

It began as such an innocent interaction. She meant no harm in what she had said; and her words became self-empowering as she sincerely believed that a course of professional intervention was necessary. I was in my secluded space, heretofore referred to as my "writing room", engaging in open discussion with some of my contemporary characters. She entered while I was in the midst of a very engaging conversation with the two main characters; and I was turned about in my chair and not physically writing.

With a brief, caring interrogation coupled with my own admission she, my wife of five months, indicated that I need to seek professional help: a psychiatrist. She supplemented this assessment with the fact that I had become more reclusive and that I had been imbibing more than usual and that these are some of the classic signs of significant depression. She is, of course, a registered nurse and a twenty-year veteran of personal psychotherapy and the host of medications that accompany such visits. She testifies that she is always able to stay on task and accomplish meaningful things in a timely manner. I offer agreement quickly because I have two gentlemen in my head that are anxiously awaiting my reply to their respective queries. She leaves the room, satisfied; and I return to my conversation.

The following evening she announces that, via her psychiatrist, she was able to network a speedy appointment with a doctor who her psychiatrist believed had the expertise in depression/hallucinations that he, himself, did not possess. I tried to appear as puzzled as my face could possibly construe but agreed to make the appointment if that's what she thought was best. It was hard to imagine, but she thought it was best.

I was taken to his office by his secretary and was told to get comfortable; and that he would arrive momentarily. She left. I then noticed that his chair was a deep brown, leather chair that reclined while my choices consisted of those types of chairs that are typically lining the principal's office. I sauntered over, opposite the 5 foot wide rosewood desk, and spun his chair over for myself and replaced his with one of the others that were available. I waited, comfortablyas instructed.

He entered: a visual mix of Groucho Marx and Sigmund Freud (two of my favorite entertainers!). As he walked by me he brushed his hand against the soft leather of my chair as if he were comforting a child. He sat, then stirreddesperately trying

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