shrink

I had an appointment today with my first decent psychiatrist; as in $95 per hour, not covered by insurance, full-blown expensive decency. Things were going alright, he was giving me something called a clinical interview (I guess to determine all the juicy details of my past and what my personal inventory of mental issues might be), and then he asked me to describe myself. What? It felt like one of those sneaky job interview questions that you’re not quite prepared for, the crucial one that determines offer or no offer, the one where the interviewer gleefully looks into your eyes as if it was the most simple question in the world, but in your mind the question translates roughly as: If the square root of the hypotenuse coagulates at a 43 degree angle, will WMD appear in Iraq, cubed?

I faltered. My mind hazed over and I found myself muttering something lame about how I am outgoing, um something, something, something. Could you repeat the question? Describe myself in what way exactly; height, weight, eye color? No. He apparently sensed I was floundering and asked me if I like myself. Well, yeah, I suppose. And it occurred to me as I was driving home afterward that at the ripe old age of 37 I apparently haven’t got a clue how to describe myself. Which means, roughly, I don’t know who I am. I guess that also means there will be a lot more appointments to come, right? Gotta sort that kind of thing out in a hurry…