This actually looks exactly like the guy who prescribed me my Zoloft and then never met with me again
By now it’s kind of common knowledge that I have a brain that doesn’t work right. Not in the traditional sense, I mean, I hope it’s also common knowledge that my brain works right in an intellectual way, but emotionally it just kind of fizzles. If I were emo I would say that I’m walking around with a broken heart behind my forehead. Okay, yeah, I’m emo. My brain is a broken heart.
Anyway. I’m currently on Zoloft to curb that whole I-hate-everyone-but-especially-myself attitude that I so expertly cultivated in high school, but it has seemed to hit a metaphorical dead-end in that the pills kind of no longer work. One of the (many) bad things about depression is that it’s difficult to tell if your sadness is “normal,” or if it’s an ebbing symptom that your medicine has gone kaput. My parents are all freaky because I’m leaving for Paris in the fall and want to make sure I’m okay so I don’t have a nervous breakdown like I did the last time I was in Europe, complete with a homecoming panic attack that landed me on a stretcher in a Philadelphia ambulance. (God, I’m a catch!)
This is all well and fine, except that they are making me shop for therapists, which is strange and fascinating and also just so fucking telling about our generation. I mean, maybe we're all so sad because we have so many choices to make about EVERYTHING -- even shrinks! -- that we just tune out and shut down. Maybe us Youngs are getting advice from everyone because we're so drug-addled and terrified about having so many options that we are all becoming wallflowers at a school dance hosted by Keith Gessen.
So yeah. Each therapist has a website that describes their education, specialties, rates and displays a little picture of them looking smart and also hyperFreudian. (Sidenote: Almost all of them have beards/mustaches YAY!!) It’s like the fucking Facebook of therapists, only they don’t list music so I can’t likely choose the guy who will play Kid A in the waiting room.
I know that everyone in New York goes to therapy; you are basically considered crazy if you don’t. But the idea that I should click through a list of links that my Mom e-mails me in order to choose who I will divulge my darkest thoughts to is positively surreal.
Anyway, I chose this guy, because he reminds me of Dwight Shrute and looks easy to manipulate. I mean… I picked him 'cuz he went to Penn. Heh.