Horseshit On Bridge Back From Terebithia

I told the children's community clinic doctor that I was taking Klonopin and asked if they could refill my script. No! We got into an argument. I was not surprised or angry that she would not refill the script--I think that's actually a sign of integrity, and appreciated it--but that she was insisting I go to a mental health provider. She said (yelled) that I needed to see if I had 'an underlying issue' and that I don't just have panic attacks for no reason. No? Really? But, I argued (yelled), I know why I have them. I get scared about things during the day, but I don't feel it, and then it all comes out at once. She paid no heed to this explanation. I told her that psychiatry and me have some major splits of opinion. I said I'd rather solve my problems with spirituality and my own intelligence than psychiatry. She said that made sense but I should still get help! I said psychiatrists love medications, they give them out like crazy! She said no, they can SHOVEL THEIR WAY INTO MY MIND! I recoiled! I said everybody has some type of anxiety! She said to leave her out of it! She went and got me a list of sliding scale community clinics. Community clinics are full of LCSWs trained to deliver tidbits they learned in two years of college through the haze of their own mental illnesses that inspired them to major in social work! I didn't say that, though.

Ok, lady, so you are right. I am sick. I didn't want to say this for a very long time, but I guess it's true. She said that the fact I've moved twice across the country at 21 is a warning flag to her. I wanted to yell something about traveller kids and not understanding transient youth culture. But I really am lonely. I really am drained by always having my next move on the horizen. Every place is equally cold, dry, disconnected. I am tired. I am willing to become comfortable.