How We Got Back Home XXXX… Chapter 40

The truck is packed to the hilt.  The wood floors smell like lemony sunshine.  We spent the entire night packing and cleaning.  Chico and I are dismantling the bed and that will be the last of it.  Our neighbors are super curious.  One day we are being stopped in our driveway by the state patrol and the five days later our bags are packed.  One of my neighbors waves at us and I put my glasses on like I am Joan Collins.   I do not want anyone to see me.  ANYONE.

When I scorched myself taking a shower last night, my entire body had red little bumps all over.  My face was covered, my legs, and arms.  I am assuming it is from the rubber mat and pillow.  It does not itch, but knowing that it is there is enough for me to feel anxious about it.  I would love to go see a doctor so that they can tell me what is going on and if they can give me anything to clear it…..   Yeah, that ain’t happening.  So for now, I have on Chico’s baseball cap, hair in a pony tail, and my oversized Gucci Shades.  It is about 8:00 a.m. and I take a final walkthrough to make sure that we haven’t missed anything.  We haven’t.  It is like we were never here.  I really feel like we left the house better than what we found it.

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So here is the game plan….  I am leaving to go to my Baker Act assigned Psychiatrist.  My appointment is scheduled for 9:00 a.m.  While I am there, Chico will go to the Rental Office and terminate our lease.  Ironically, my office is in the same exact building as the Rental Office and I am super weirded out about someone even seeing Chico.  Most people did not get the opportunity to meet him, so most won’t recognize him.  Once we are done at both places, we are to meet back at the house, load my car onto the truck trailer, and we are I-75 North and I am not even looking in the rear view mirror.  Chico will drive the truck and I will drive his car.  So far, so good.  We are on schedule and as a team we are getting the hell out of Tampa!

I arrive at the Psychiatrist’s office and it is PACKED!!!  I mean they actually have a number system like the DMV.  You have got to be fucking kidding me right now.  I know that I have an appointment, but it looks like everyone of us has an appointment at 9:00 a.m.  The waiting area is large, but there is clearly not enough seating to accommodate everyone.  With my recent red bump issue I have no problem holding down the wall.  They give me a ton of paperwork and it is redundant.  It is the same damn questionnaire form that the “social worker” from the “Doom Room” asked.  Go figure.  I am still leaving a bunch of questions unanswered on purpose because this shit is none of their damn business.  I am sure these questions will be reiterated to me when I meet with the Psychiatrist, but I am standing my ground on this.

My nerves are a wreck!!!  It is like every little sound is making me feel like someone is scratching their nails on the chalkboard.  They is a baby crying and the mother is trying to soothe her but nothing is working.  Its a guy sitting down in a chair and he is talking to himself.  His patience is shorter than anyone else in the room.  He gets up and walks around and then he sits back down.  It is apparent that no one in the room is trying to take his seat when he gets up.  No need in getting thrown back into the “Doom Room” for fighting over a seat.  I look around as if everyone in the room knows what has happened to me. I think that they are judging me and they don’t even know my situation.  My anxiety heightens and I am finding it hard to breathe.  Fuck it…  I walk out of the door.  I needed air.  I am coughing and crying at the same time and I don’t know what the hell is going on with me at this moment.  I am scared as hell.    A lady walks out, looks at me and asks if I am ok.  I tell her that I am and I wipe my face down.  I stand there for a few more minutes and then I turn back to the waiting room to see what number they are on.   I am B35.  The variation of the numbers are not in any sequential order, so I have no idea how close I am to being next.  I just know that this is taking way longer than I had expected.  I had built myself up to have on a serious game face, tell them that this was a mistake, and get the hell on.  Now I am in this waiting room.  It has to be over 100 people in here and I feel like I am at the free clinic. There are televisions prompted overhead with the same infomercial about mental illness.  No one is paying attention to it.  I am thinking like most of them, no one treats us like this is a mental illness, so you can miss me with that shit.

B35!  B35!  I am up and damn near running towards the lady that has called my name.  We head back to a long hall and already, I am ready to jump out of the window.  Problem is, they don’t have any.  The lady leads me into an office that is nothing soothing or comforting.  It looks just like the matrix room in the “Doom Room”.  No pictures, signs, nothing.  Just a desk, two chairs for visitors and one chair for the doctor.  There is a box of tissue on the desk, but it is empty.  NICE.  I sit there for what feels like eternity. My phone is buzzing and I am not in the mood to speak to anyone.  I am sure it is Chico checking to see if things are still going as planned.  I decide not to worry him.  I check my phone and on the screen says “Daddy”.  I damn sure ain’t answering this before this appointment.  He may see my facial expression and put my ass right back where they had me yesterday.  This is not happening.  I send Chico a text to let him know that this is taking longer than I thought, but that so far, no one has done anything “wrong”.

There is a knock at the door as if I am suppose to say “Come in” and in walks my appointed Psychiatrist.  Interestingly, he doesn’t even look me in the face and speak.  His head is stuck in my chart and of course my mug shot is still attached.  As far as he is concerned the person before him is just a vessel.  What he believes is in the chart that he has been provided.   The doctor is a tall lanky black man.  What bothers me is that he really isn’t having any personal/ professional contact with me at all.  He has not bothered to look at me.  He has a laptop that he sets up on the desk.  He starts to drill me with questions that are in the chart.  I answer all of them.  He asks me whether or not I feel suicidal.  This is when I pause.  Now all of a sudden he looks up at me to see who I am and whether or not I am ready to slit my wrists.  His question catches me off guard.  The entire time that I was in the “Doom Room”, my focus was getting out and getting back to Chico.  I never thought about just ending it all.  I clear my throat and I tell him that I have not been nor am I suicidal.  He goes on typing and asks do I have suicidal ideation.  The true answer is yes.  I tell him no.  The interrogation goes on for another 15 minutes or so.  He writes me a prescription.  I don’t even bother to look at it.  Most likely due to the fact that he just pulled out a prescription pad, circled refills, and signed his name.  The drug itself is already pre-printed.   Now tell me this ain’t the matrix.

He tells me to get my prescription filled and start taking my medicine immediately as prescribed.  I tell him that I will.  He tells me to set up my appointment for our meeting next week where he can evaluate my progress….  What fucking progress?  You didn’t bother to ask me anything on your own.  Everything about this doctor is scripted.  The state has him so guarded that he doesn’t give a shit about anything in this office.  He gets a pay check and great government benefits and is probably on the golf course by 2:00 p.m.  He signs a sheet of paper and tells me that I am to take this paper to the mental facility that I have been assigned.  I guess the watermark on this paper proves that I truly came to see the Psychiatrist and kept my promise to report into the mental facility to start serving my “probation”.  Good luck with that!

I walk out of the office and follow all of the signs that say “exit”.  I am suppose to stop at the check out desk to make my follow-up appointment for next week.  My mind is so concentrated on getting the fuck up out of here, that I am damn near sprinting.  As I open the door, a lady behind the check out counter calls me to check out with her.  I turn around, I go up to the desk.  She asks if I can confirm all of my information.  I do.  This bitch breaks wide and says your office visit for today will be $100.  Wait a damn minute.  I am looking around the room and I know that there are some people in here that are lucky enough to have lunch money and you are asking me to pay your ass $100!!!  Why me??  She can sense that I have a “Fuck You” luck on my face and she says, it’s not her or the doctor.  It is the state that is charging me.  “So what if I don’t have $100?”  She proceeds to tell me that they will send it to collections until it gets paid.  I be damned.   She also asks me if I need to utilize their pharmacy, which is preferred and is at the office adjacent to this one.

I am floored.  I give her my credit card and it dawns on me that I have to do something different.  I sign for the $100 charge and tell her that I will see her next week, same time.  So not only do they fuck up your record, they fuck up your credit too.  In addition, the drugs that they are peddling are probably addicting and has some side effects that make you crazier. You can miss me with this shit!  I get into my car.  I breathe.  I head straight to Wells Fargo.  I need to take out some cash.  There is no need for anyone to be checking my whereabouts by looking at my credit/ debit cards.  I take everything but $10 out of my private account and I am out of the bank.  I tell Chico that I am on the way to the house and he needs to be there before I can get there.

Still out of my mind, I am cautious about my driving.  No need in getting pulled over because they “thought” I wasn’t going to stop.

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