The little psychiatrist.

A Ho Chi Minh City experience.

My psychiatrist stands at about the same height as the chair in her office, which is to say she is quite petite at around 148cm and her chair is very tall, the only way she can look down at me when I’m on the sofa. Her face matches her body, young and innocent, but those eyes are tired and her back is weighed down by the burden of days that it could no longer bear to perch up straight, the features of an adult. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, in an effort to appear more professional than her voice let off: a soft whisper that forces me to strain my ears and cocked my head to her direction, defeating the whole point of being relaxed and comfortable on the sofa. “Have the antidepressant been working? No, no, you do not have to talk to me. Transfer your thoughts and feelings into the doll, okay?” Then she apologizes for the noise outside, a car honking or a motorcycle revving its engine. 

A curtain covers grey Ho Chi Minh City, I prefer not to look at it. My psychiatrist, trying very hard to accomodate my needs, turns on a white noise machine and lights scented candles, covering the room in a miasma that resembles my brain on the pills. It is unlike any doctor’s office I’ve ever been to, and even the bad news and the “nothing is wrong” are whispered, not stated. Everything whispers here, assuring you that “nothing is wrong” and especially “nothing is wrong with you.” Endure, answer the questions, be polite, and soon the pills will come. She, my psychiastrist, has to present herself as bigger than she is, for she is one of a handful in the country that has a degree (alledgedly), and I’m one of the handful that seeks her out.

“The doll, it is not your father and mother. It acknowledges your feelings and worries. So, tell it everything.” “Acknowledge” is an unpopular word here, so she uses it deliberately and plenty, to establish herself as different, as better. She also boasts to have never listen to any of the parents, the ones that force her to not include “bipolar” or “depression” on the results for fear their children can’t get a job.   

I fare better than them, for I’m not afraid, not of my parents and not of the country itself. And I hold that diagnosis like a trophy, Xanax as my prize.  

Bored and tired I am of the doll, but I have come to appreciate the psychiatrist herself. How she tries so hard at such a young age (she is only a year older) and how she radiates harmlessness, like a puppy. I think just seeing her helps me more than talking to the doll. I like it when she climbs on the chair, or tries to gives me advice. Maybe her advice is helpful to someone, but it hasn’t been for me, yet I let her do it anyway because she seems comfortable with it. She isn’t comfortable with, however, when it comes to the pills.

Xanax and ritalin are dangerous and addictive, and must be prescribed with care. I have problems with them before, and my mistake was telling her so. Addiction runs in your genes, and although I avoided alcolhol and ciggs, I would never have guessed some white, powdery sphere would be my downfall. Whenever it comes to deciding the amount of pills, she gets jittery and nervous, and the facade crumbles. At my first appointment, she prescribed 20 pills, but I used to need at least double the amount. I went with it, afraid of seeing what lies underneath that childlike face. Until me, most of her experience was drawn from books and lectures, and the few patients she had fortunately fitted the bill.

I was ashamed that first session, wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut.

The professional mask also falls to pieces at the touch of appointment set-up. I can see it in her eyes, the dread whenever I say “I can’t come in next week.” Her ears hears one thing, but her face says “please come back, i can wait, it will be months, even years before i can get a new patient.”  

It must be difficult to work all day beside a storeroom full of mind-altering drugs. Sooner or later, you might wonder if you also need them. But you are afraid what they might do to you. I need them. I need her. She needs me. Everyone in my country needs her. But they are afraid of that modern, whispering office. They are afraid of the little, delicate psychiatrist.