First of all, that's not me in the picture but I like his pants.
If you've been following my work for any period of time, you know that depression is something that I deal with. That doesn't make me unique or edgy or anything like that. It's a normal human condition that I and a shit ton of other folks deal with. Hell, I think lots of the staff here and staff everywhere do.
Anyway, I started going to counseling again and really kinda had to work my dick off to find someone who would take my insurance (I use my military insurance and not barstool).
I've been through tons of docs and counselors. Most are weirdos. I think finding a new wizard is about the hardest thing you can do in the medical realm. Maybe finding a plastic surgeon is tougher because if you are gonna pay for new titties or new hair, you want them shits to be really poppin. That's the reason they call fake tits and hair Dallas Bolt Ons. Anything with tools is hard.
Moving on. I called probably 100 places earlier this month and then finally found a spot that could treat me but it was gonna take a few weeks. Well, those weeks ended today and I got to see a new provider. Pretty dope. He gave me a new round of medicine and a treatment plan which I'm pumped about and I don't believe that he's a fucking idiot, unlike other doctors I've dealt with. Why? What was different about this fella?
His desk. Jesus Christ his desk. It was huge. Executive desk wouldn't even begin to describe how executive this desk was. It had to be at least 7 feet long and 4 feet wide. He had his framed credentials, family photos, computer, note pads, diagnostic books, and there was still so much fucking space.
I walked in there and said, "Unreal desk." He said, "thanks, I made it myself. It's hard to find one this big."
"Crafty, too" I noted in my mental log. "This guy isn't fucking around."
"So, tell me what brings you in," he replied as I sat down in his tuft leather chair.
"Depression, tbh. Your boy feels like shit. Lethargic. Sad. Struggle bus city."
"Any real reason? Anything change in your life?"
"Nope. My life is p good but my brain has worms," I joke.
He doesn't crack a smile. "Damn. He's good," is another mental note I make.
"When did all this start?"
"Buckle in Chapsy," I say to myself in my brain. I then tell him what's going on with me. He listens, comes up with a plan, and then he reaches his hand across his enormous desk and shakes my hand.
"Nice to meet you. We'll get through this. See ya in two weeks. We'll talk about how the medicine is working."
You're god damn right we will, doc. You're goddamn right we will.
If you're struggling, see a doc. Who knows. You might see a big fucking desk too.