Every time I walk into the VA for a psychiatry appointment I have to fill out a depression/anxiety survey. Before I was called into my last appointment in February, I didn't fill out the stupid fucking form. I wasn't in the mood, neither for the survey nor for any other bullshit conversation. So, my psychiatrist was "troubled" by my behavior and asked me to fill out the form so he could gauge my depression/anxiety levels on some mathematical psycho-formula scale. I leapt out on a no-bullshit-leftover rant.
Doc, I'm not going to fill out your stupid fucking form because the only reason I am here is so you can type into your computer and eventually the VA will mail me some medication. That's it, that's the only reason I'm here and that's the only reason you're here too. You read the fucking form, ask me some scripted follow-up questions that a PhD from Harvard wrote, feign some empathy to pave the way for some more fucking stupid scripted questions from another PhD who's never been to war or in the military, then you type on your computer and click some boxes and I leave. I say "Thanks", you say "You're welcome", and I'll get medication in the mail for the next three months. So don't pretend like I'm violating some mysterious rule of the VA production process. You get a paycheck, I get medication. That's it. So click and stamp your fucking form and I'll be on my way.
....
No, Doc, I haven't given you a filled-out form since 2009. This is normal, it's even normal that you don't remember. Yes, Doc, I know that I can "talk to somebody" by following the brochure instructions and simply calling 1-800-PLEASE-HOLD. You've given me this same brochure every three months for the past two years. Do you really want me to feign ignorance again like I always do? "Oh, wow, I didn't know these 'talk therapy' programs existed! Free of charge! Wow!!!" Stamp that damn form, click on your computer, and I'll be on my way.
...
You're right, Doc, in fact I don't think you or anyone in this office gives a shit about me. Do I give a shit about you? Are we friends? Would you know my name if you saw me on the street? Fuck no, no you wouldn't. Yet, you want me to fill out your stupid fucking form. You don't know me, you'll never know me, just as I don't know you and I'll never know you. How many hours of solid REM sleep did you get last night? (Here's a brochure) Have you smoked anything, including a cigarette, in the past 12 months? (Here's a pamphlet) Have you drank alcohol in the past 12 months? Have you drank more than three drinks in 24 hours? (Here's an addiction center you can check into, for free!!!) In the past 12 months, has anyone told you they're concerned about you? (Brochure for social support) Do you think someone loves you? (Pamphlet of local charities) Doc?... Are you there...? We're having a safe, intimate, trusted conversation here, right? Just tell me what type of food you eat every day. How many conversations do have per day? Doc? Stamp your fucking form, click your computer, and I'll be on my way.
...
Yes, Doc, I understand you have a medical professional responsibility in prescribing these medications. I further understand that you have no clue whether or not I swallow them or burn them alive on my BBQ as a party to some sociopathic fetish for torturing chemicals. Your responsibility ends when you stamp the fucking form and click that goddamn computer. Do I have a responsibility to monitor your aspirin intake? No, I don't, you know why? Because we're not friends. We're not intimate persons. We're not even honest strangers. You don't tell me shit about your life, especially regarding your social skills and vitamin supplements, so this is nothing new. It hasn't been new for two years. You still don't know my first name after two years, and to be honest, I don't know yours either. So stamp the fucking form, click your computer and I'll be on my way.
...
"Thanks, Doc."
"You're welcome."
