(The Diagnosis Was Wrong, But the Confidence Was Strong)
“Doctor, the patients are restless.”
Good.
If they were calm, I’d think the meds were working.
Hand me the clipboard—
the one covered in my old resentments
and your new insurance co-pays.
I need a refill
on whatever I prescribed last time.
Don’t check the dosage—
I wrote it during a blackout
and the AMA refused to comment.
Bring in the next disaster.
Who is it?
Ah yes—
the man allergic to responsibility
and addicted to horoscopes and whores.
Put him in the trauma bay;
tell him Mercury’s been in retrograde
since his third divorce, and Amber retired anyway.
And someone get me my reading glasses.
Not to read—
just to look smart
while I guess wildly.
The nurse asks,
“Doctor, are you okay?”
Of course not.
I’m a mental health professional.
We don’t heal—
we outsource.
Now… where were we?
Ah yes, the refill.
RX #1:
Take one truth
with two lies
and chase it with a childhood memory
you haven’t processed yet.
RX #2:
Apply gratitude
directly to the wound.
If burning occurs,
good.
It means you’re still alive.
RX #3:
Stop saying
“everything happens for a reason.”
Everything happens because
people are irresponsible
and God clocks out early.
Next patient, please.
Mr. Ego returns—
as usual—
complaining of a swollen sense of self.
I recommend ice.
Preferably Antarctica.
Miss Co-Dependence is back too.
We tried cutting her off last visit,
but she refused
because she “didn’t want to be rude.”
We’ll keep her overnight.
And you—
yes, you—
the one pretending to be fine
because you bought a new candle.
You need a refill most of all.
Your diagnosis?
Life.
Chronic.
Terminal.
Relapsing and remitting
but mostly just remitting.
The nurse hands me a chart.
The chart hands me my fate.
I stare into it, horrified.
“My god… is this my handwriting?”
No wonder half the patients
left the building enlightened
and the other half
started a podcast.
Time of day:
who knows.
Cause of day:
capitalism.
Treatment plan:
“fuck around and see.”
I sign the discharge papers
with the confidence of a televangelist
and the accuracy of a man
throwing darts in the dark.
Before I leave,
I grab my coat,
my stethoscope,
and the final universal truth:
Nobody’s cured.
We just refill the prescription
until the bottle or the body
runs out.
Fade to black.
The credits roll.
Freud slips again.