Rising Above Mediocrity
by Benjamin Geiger

I finally went to the local mental health institution for what I thought would be an appointment with a psychiatrist.

First of all, the place is damn near impossible to find. I had to call and ask for directions.

The entire building is decorated in that ever-so-wonderful ‘government chic’ style; cinderblock walls, plain white everything, nasty plastic chairs… think of the worst DMV you’ve ever had to visit, and you’ll know what this place was like. (It’s odd, since this is a private clinic.) And the noise was unbearable. Some part of their climate control was rumbling, with the rumble pulsating every few seconds, just enough to make sure you can’t tune it out.

My appointment was at 2PM. I arrived at 2:05 or so, because I got lost on the way there. After waiting in line for ten minutes, I was given a checklist of symptoms and had to give them my ‘insurance’ card and ID. There were approximately 50 symptoms listed, and I have about half. (I could even recognize which problems they were looking for: one group was for depression, one was for mania, one was for anxiety, one was for addiction, etc.)

They finally called my name at 2:45 or so. I was taken into a back room and the ‘counselor’ asked me a few questions. At some point, I happened to mention that I was an atheist. This led to a fifteen minute long religious browbeating. I just did what I always do and zoned out; it’s not worth arguing, because nobody listens to reason.

Anyway, what really pissed me off was when I told that not only would I not be seeing a psychiatrist today, I wouldn’t even get to see one on my next visit. Apparently, they can’t just listen to the other counselors (and psychiatrists) I’ve dealt with; they have to do their own ‘diagnosis’. (You know, when they hear “I’ve tried to commit suicide”, how the fuck do they come up with a ‘diagnosis’ other than depression?)

My next appointment is in two weeks, at 10:30 AM (when my work doesn’t start until 5:30 PM). So, it’ll be at least a month before I actually get to talk to somebody who can actually help me. Until then I have to deal with the idiots and the religious freaks.

Not like “time to recharge” dead, either. More like “lead plates melted together” dead.

As I was on my way home from work tonight (I wasn’t even on the clock; I just needed to use the Internet connection to set my Powerbook back up) I stopped at a Subway. When I went to leave, my car gave the clickclickclickclickclick sound characteristic of a discharged battery.

Over the next two minutes, though, the entire car went dead. No lights (exterior, interior, or idiot). No power locks. No trunk release. No alarm. Not even enough juice to activate the solenoid that releases the key from the ignition switch when the car is in park. That made things interesting for a while, while I tried to figure out how to get into the trunk when the key wouldn’t come out of the ignition.

[A side note: For some time now, my car has sometimes refused to let me take my key out of the ignition. Apparently, it doesn’t believe that the transmission is actually in Park; usually, rapidly pressing the shift release button forces it to let the key go, but sometimes it takes a while. Sometimes a well-placed blow to the bottom of the steering column would release the key. I found out today why this is so: there is, apparently, a manual release inside the steering column, and an impact could press it. There’s an access hole for that purpose, with cover, but I find it easier to slide my hand into the steering column and press the button manually.]

Here’s the weirdest part, though: I was completely unable to jumpstart the car. Even with the two batteries directly connected, it was as though the jumper cables weren’t there.

After that attempt to jumpstart the car, I called around to various tow truck companies. They wanted $100+ to take the car the ten miles back to the house, and that doesn’t even cover the actual cost of repairs. This is when I learned that my insurance policy, despite what I had been led to believe, does not have roadside assistance. They reimburse up to $50 for towing. Note again that the cost would be >$100, with the remainder coming out of pocket. And that assumes that they actually reimburse.

At that point, I had no idea what to do, so I called Dad.

He was able to leave work early and show up. On the way, we came up with a plan that would (potentially) save the repair cost. When he got there, we traveled to Wal-Mart and bought a new battery for the car. The rationale was this: if it’s the battery, yay, problem solved. If it’s anything else, at least it should get the car back to the house, where the problem can be dealt with.

We also bought an adjustable wrench. This piece of shit bent when trying to remove the first bolt holding a crossbar on. We ended up going back to the house to retrieve Dad’s tools, including a ratchet and the appropriate size wrench and socket.

It is most definitely not an easy task to take the battery out of a 2000 Grand Prix. Even after taking off the crossbar and moving or detaching all of the cables, hoses, clamps, and doohickeys (now that’s a technical term for you) in the vicinity, the battery still needs to be turned on its side in order to be removed. Installing the new one is not much easier, though in this case the new battery had a handle, which helped.

At long last, the new battery was installed and the car was running. At some point, we realized that the battery was not a no-maintenance, sealed battery, as I had thought, but rather a standard battery that requires filling.

Guess what neither of us had done since we bought the car? [In my defense, I honestly thought it was a sealed battery.]

With much trepidation we opened the access panels on the battery. The lead plates were exposed and partially melted, and there was practically no liquid inside. In retrospect, I’m surprised it didn’t explode or melt earlier.

Now, with the new battery, the car is running like a champ again. I’m still going to take it to the dealer ASAP to make sure it’s not something more serious (like an alternator problem or faulty wiring) but I think the problem is solved.

Some time ago, one of the myriad antidepressants advertised on television—I don’t remember which—had an ad that stuck in my head. The part that stuck was an actress saying, “I used to be happy. I remember being happy.”

It struck me that I didn’t. I knew I was depressed, but I honestly didn’t remember ever being truly happy. Every depression questionnaire I’ve ever read asked if the symptoms had lasted at least a month: “Does since the day I was born count?”

Since, I’ve had a few times when I thought I was happy. I doubt I really was, but I had fooled myself into thinking I was. I’m not even sure what it feels like.

I’ve seen ‘counselors’ about this, who referred me to psychiatrists, who put me on drugs. They didn’t help much. About the only real effect of the antidepressant I was most recently prescribed (Lexapro) was a side effect that I shouldn’t discuss in polite company. (Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? The side effect was that I was practically unable to orgasm. It sounds like a good thing, but believe you me, going for three hours without a happy ending is a recipe for eternal frustration.)

Thursday I see yet another psychiatrist. (I could have gone back to the USF psychiatrist I had been seeing, but I really don’t like her; she basically didn’t listen to me at all.) I’m going to ask to be put on a different antidepressant. I need a massive dose of Lexapro to see any effect—while side effects set in at much lower doses—and Wellbutrin didn’t do much at all. Maybe this time I’ll find something that works.