At the Doctor's
Too often I feel the Cassandra. What I perceive as truth and lived experience fall on deaf ears. Professional deaf ears. It's not a new senario. The sterile walls of the doctor's office, filled with diplomas or an overview of the human body, either in musclewrapped or bare bones. Perhaps a skeleton in the corner. An office chair for the doctor, a chair for the patient. Some hierarchies never truly change. One doctor's office I was at, had a couch. I clutch my little list of points I wish to bring to her attention. Things I perhaps struggle with, perhaps feel overwhelm me, perhaps are silly little things. I trace a pebble soothingly. My mask stays in place. “I'm having some trouble with melancholy.” I say at last. One of several conditions on my list, the most common, I think. One comorbidity seldom arrives unchaperoned, and the melancholy has been a consistent for years. My own dreary dark dog, to borrow a phrase. Such a thing that is a constant day in and da...