At Neverland, the psychiatric unit of the partial hospitalization program, it's a novelty for us to see a doctor. Almost all the sessions for recovering depressives and assorted other psychiatric patients are conducted by social workers.
However, today we are honored by the presence of a real psychiatrist. Not an "Almost," but a real attending physician. He is a man in his thirties and he sits at the head of the table to address us. As he does so, his face is totally without affect. If there are any emotions percolating within him, they are to remain a total mystery to us.
This seeming lack of anything human is not unique among shrinks. No, it's more the norm, but he has taken it to an illogical extreme, as if his empathy has been sucked out in some bizarre medical procedure.
Today he isn't here to win any friends and that's good because he won't. Without warning he announces that we should all consume no alcohol for a minimum of two years following discharge.
We are stunned.
He might as well have said never. In fact, to us, he did say never. He is now Dr. Never, and we can't hear a thing he says. For the rest of the day, those of us who aren't too medicated to do so, speak of nothing else. His idea is preposterous, like not wearing any shoes or underwear for a decade. I wonder why he's not on the program with us; he is clearly mad.
As Dr. Never yaps on, I tune-out and cast my mind back to when Caryn, my assigned social worker, gave me a severe tongue-lashing. I had been out a few nights before to celebrate my "release" from being an inpatient and she was not amused. This alcohol thing—it's clearly a theme.
I had pleaded to Caryn that I only drank two pints, but I conveniently forgot to mention that I had then had difficulty staying upright. She was unyielding. Now this doctor is backing her up. But two years, it just doesn't make sense.
Today's other sessions with the social workers are a waste. We talk of nothing but drinking.