The last few days have left me feeling a little like Napoleon on the Island of Elba.

After my much awaited for  (eight weeks or so of waiting) doctor appointment with the doctor who was supposed to give me a prescription for my anxiety, (and, ok, a little depression), and migraines, I wanted to off myself.  His name was Dr. Eeeevvviiillll.  Have you heard of him?  He has an office in Amherst, NY.  He’s got a reputation that I thought I could handle.  I could not.

His reputation is that of being an arrogant prig.  I was warned.  I was actually nervous about going, which isn’t like me.   And before I went in, a woman came storming out of the office door and slammed it.  Badum dum dum……..

The first thing he said was that he hadn’t bothered to read the two other reports he had in front of him from my migraine doctor in Boston who published a book and the neuropharmocologist I saw previously, who is well known in the area and the department head at one of our universities here.    He claimed he didn’t read my previously sent records because he wanted to make his assessment on his own.   Great.  What a friggin’ waste of a year for me.

So the appointment was basically a ping-pong match.  I wasn’t going to take his shit for anything   He told me I was sarcastic.  I told him he was very perceptive (this was about five minutes  into our  appointment).  Damn, I left my boxing gloves at home, I’d have to spar bare knuckled.

Him:  Do you think you have anxiety?

Me: People say I do, I have panic attacks, I worry, sometimes it’s a cumbersome-type of worry – whatever.

Him:  How long do you think you’ve experienced this anxiety?

Me:  Ummm…..I don’t know, forever!

Him:  Since you were born????!!!!!

Me: Ahhhh, clearly not.  I have no recollection of my birth.  My earliest recollection of anything is walking to kindergarten.  So let’s say five years old.  Most people don’t remember things since their birth.  I also remember repeatedly being yelled at for biting my nails to the quick and for repeatedly banging my head against the chair whilst singing out loud quietly to myself. (Marty claims I still do this when in the midst of panic – I might – minus the singing, it’s more of a moan.)  Getting the visual? Nice.

Him:  I see.  You don’t seem anxious now.

Me:  No, I’m pretty angry.

He didn’t know shit about migraine protocol.  He didn’t know what my acid-reflux medicine was.  psychiatrists are supposed to be schooled on drugs.  Drugs, baby, drugs.

I can’t believe I stayed for the duration of that appointment with my  dumbass father doctor.   I just needed that script, just needed that script.  In the end, he said he disagreed with the neuropharm (his boss, btw), (so he had read the report) and wrote me a script for something else.  Which I won’t fill.  Then he told me, on my way out, that if I had any thoughts of suicide to call him or a hotline number.  Okey dokey.

So I came home, talked to a few girlfriends, got my ya-yas out, and sat down to write him a letter, with a copy being sent to his boss (my neuropharmacologist.  The letter was d-r-i-p-p-i-n-g with sarcasm.  At the end I told him I was clearly canceling our next appointment, and that if I, indeed, had any thoughts of talking a long walk on a short pier, I would not be calling him.

You don’t F with Aunt Sarah

Love, Little Miss Sunshine

P.S. Libbylicious called in the middle of my upset, “don’t off yourself before our trip in February because I already bought the tickets for our Broadway shows, K?”  Another friend called, and suggested we go walking.  Only if I carry a dozen eggs, baby.

And as you see from my strikeout, therein lies the problem.  He is haunting me still, to paraphrase Edith Piaf.

P.P.S.: Miralax is a disolvable white power for ummm….constipation from my stupid medications.