WHEN SO-CALLED MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONALS--HAVE MORE MENTAL PROBLEMS THAN YOU.
At various times in life, everyone needs someone to talk with, someone who will listen and offer advice. Sometimes, our friends or family are all the help we need But-- other times-- we need the help of a medical professional.
In the late sixties, toward the end of my marriage, I unloaded my fears, frustrations, and anger on a Psychiatrist. He was a kind and sincere gentleman who was respectful of my heart--someone who listened as I cried through every word. My psychiatrist
understood when to stop listening and start sharing the hard facts I so desperately-needed to hear.
It took less than twelve visits to regain my confidence, to understand that my accomplishments far-outweighed my failures. My psychiatrist
guided me through a simple process that opened my eyes to basic facts: My children and I deserved more from life than living with a bully, an abuser, a womanizer, and a heartless loser.
More than forty years later, when my two children
abandoned me—walked out of my life forever-- I tried to work through my shock and sadness, alone. Realizing my sadness was beyond my control, I called the Arkansas Psychiatric Center.
When I arrived at the center for
my first appointment, I was concerned that too-many patients, including me, were forced to stand in the hall. The staff told us that the doctors were running far-behind and—as a result-- the waiting room was full. I waited almost two hours
for the nurse to call my name before being ushered into the doctor’s office.
The Center’s lead psychiatrist was short, completely bald and wore open-toed sandals with a suit and tie. Without a hint of a smile, the Doctor directed
me to a straight-back chair before dropping—or should say flopping, noisily, into an over-stuffed recliner across from me. “What medicines are you taking?” he asked and I proudly replied, “Nothing.”
picked up a prescription pad and, without looking in my direction, replied: “Before I will treat you, you must first start taking the three medications I’ll be prescribing for you. I see you have Blue Cross/Blue Shield and Medicare so…your
costs shouldn’t be over-whelming. Also, I see that you’re still working and that will defray expenses, too. Now, are you allergic to any medicines?”
Puzzled to hear that I must take prescription drugs, I said:
“Doctor, I don’t need drugs or medicines. I’m here to discuss my depression, to find ways to cope with my devastating sorrow. Can’t you please help me by--” The Doctor interrupted me as he stood-up. “I do not talk
or listen to any of my patients until they are totally-medicated. Ms. Miller, if you don’t agree with my terms then we have nothing to discuss.” And, with that rude declaration, I left the doctor’s office.
of the nurses behind the check-out desk, spotting my tears, said: “You should make an appointment with Dr. Johnson. She's very kind and, because she’s a psychologist, her patients aren't required to take drugs.”
days later, I returned to the Arkansas Psychiatric Clinic to see Dr. Johnson. I was a little surprised that Dr. Johnson seemed older than me, a little fragile, and—she was wearing fluffy-white-rabbit house shoes. If she noticed me staring
at her feet, she never acknowledged it by offering an excuse or an explanation.
Dr. Johnson motioned me to a particular chair then sat down across from me. Her first words were: “Tell me why you’re here.” I began talking,
sharing my heartbreaking story, crying at times, feeling emotionally crushed until-- I happened to glance in the Doctor’s direction and realized her eyes were shut, her mouth was hanging open because…she was fast asleep!
spoke her name….she quickly opened her eyes, shut her mouth, and—clearly confused--- woke up. The psychologist fought to make a few comments then looked at the clock and said: “Your time is up. Stop at the receptionist desk on
your way out and make an appointment for next week.”
The next week was exactly like the last week except this time-- Dr. Johnson was wearing fluffy bedroom “booties” in a Tiger design. I had barely begun describing the details
of my sadness when Dr. Johnson’s snoring interrupted my train of thought. Rather than wake her, I made the decision to leave….permanently.
On the way out, I stopped at the scheduling desk. I cautioned them not to charge
me for either appointment since Dr. Johnson slept through both of them. I made sure they knew I intended to send a complaint letter to the National Psychiatrists Licensing Board.
Soon after this experience, I decided to talk out-loud
to the mirror; write endless volumes about my unhappiness; take longer walks with Cubby-Dog and--take my sadness to God. That’s when I learned about Strength Training and-- began my walk of faith.
When so-called professionals demonstrate
a lack of respect for their patients or appear to have worse psychological problems than their patients--- it’s time to launch God’s Strength Training.
WHEN PATIENTS ARE REQUIRED TO PAY HUGE SUMS OF MONEY FOR MEDICAL SERVICES----Who
needs to experience open-toed sandals worn by a tie/business suit-wearing "drug-dealer"—in a "so-called" professional office—OR---encounter Fluffy-Bunny House Shoes on an eighty year old doctor—who can’t stay "awake"-- long-enough to
do her job?!?!?!