The diagnosis

Even my doctors office feels dreadful. It has no natural light, and the modern energy efficient bulbs it is lit with leave a mechanical glare on the walls that make you feel as though you have entered a new world, and not a pleasant one.

Old magazines, some specialized reading material for people who have suffered in many of the ways I have. I sit down on a small couch and stare off into the paneling.

There is a wall of accomplishment next to me, diplomas, certifications, annual reports, I believe a Hooters girl signed personal photo and a photo of my doctor and former president George Bush, both smiling. Nice. One of the diplomas was from Ardvark university, at least that’s what it appeared to say, it had that strange font they use on diplomas, either Adrvark or Harvard, I made a note in my phone to check on Ardvark University.

I make notes on my phone, messages to myself, reminding my future self of something I know must be done, but something so unimportant that my future self would never be bothered to remember to do it. So I make the notes and a beep goes off and my future self will read the note, check Ardvark University, and it will be done.

The door opened, a large older woman, who once was possibly a man, called my name, I followed, a small dark room. I sat on an overstuffed chair, she left. Dr. Meesvian came in. He is neither a small man, nor a large man. He is just a man, about my height, a little heavier, badly dressed, like he went to Nordstrom and just bought a bunch of the same thing so every day he appears to be wearing what he was wearing yesterday, except it is fresh and clean. I forget who recommended Dr. Meesvian, or who sent me here, it’s been a while. I do think we are making progress.

“I have some news,” he said, hruskly, which is not his style, “there is a diagnosis, I think you are skitzofrentic.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not even how it’s spelled.”

“Either way, that’s the diagnosis. Take a minute and think about it, I have to make a personal call, I’m going to the parking lot and smoke a cigarette and make a personal call. You stay and think about the diagnosis. I’ll be back, but I need to make this call. And smoke a cigarette. I really smoke very few cigarettes, but this is one of those calls, a personal call mind you, but one that almost requires a smoke. Hell, what’d you say, you never smoked a cigarette, right? Right. I’d bet, you make this personal call for me, you’d be smoking 45 seconds in. Anyway, you think about that diagnosis, I have a call to make.”

He was gone, the door closed. The diagnosis floored me, but it did seem to make sense. There, alone in his empty office, I relaxed backinto the overstuffed chair and I called a meeting of all my personalities. I closed my eyes and the cabinet room began to fill up.

First to speak up was Billy Joe, the angry transgendered lesbian.

BJ: “First off, this is bullshit. I think we can all agree on that. Second. I think it’s also bullshit that we even go to therapy. It’s been about 2 years and I sit here listening, quiet, never a fucking word. It’s bullshit. Finally, it’s also bullshit that if he was to write dialog about me, he would use BJ as my name. Bullshit.”

David, a confirmed bachelor, cleared his throat and began with a mumble, “If I may, I said, if I may. Excuse me Billy Joe, but seriously. I think we all need to step back.”

BJ: “You know what Nancy, might be time for you to shut the fuck up.”

Father Johnny Redneck: “Billy Joe, enough now, girl, you calm yourself. This is some serious stuff. This sort of diagnosis, it can change a man.”

David: “They could drug him.”

BJ: “Fine by me, I could use a good high.”

There was a silence in the room, finally, in a bright red dress and outlandish makeup, Octopus Nanny spoke up.

ON: “ You axe me, this shit been all fucked up for long time anyways.”

David: “Speak it sister.”

ON: “Shut your mouth girl. I say we abandon shit fore we get all clogged up with morphine and shit.”

Father Johnny Redneck: “Ship.”

ON: “What you say?”

Father Johnny Redneck: “You said we should done abandon the shit. Honey, you don’t go abandoning no shit, you abandon the damn ship. S H I P.”

ON: “Well, you abandon your own shit sucker. I am leaving. This place is done for. You freaks and (looking at BJ) confused little kitty cats, you stick around and see what happens.”

With that, there was a second of silence, and she was gone. She did not really disappear, and there was no smoke or anything, she was just gone.

Then Barney the Dinosaur said, “Why, I think we should beat it too?”

BJ: “Take off fatso, no big loss.”

David: “’Cept at the dinner table.”

Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, be nice everyone. Everyone should be nice. Nice is how everyone should be.”

David: “Dude, even for a dinosaur, you’re a tard.”

Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, there you go again. Nice is the word of the day everyone. That much I know. That and I am out of here, the game is up, the diagnosis is probably as close to what I would consider…”

At this point Turnpike Lou, who sat in the corner, his back turned to everyone, continuing to wear the dunce cap for the 1417th day in a row, cleared his throat.

BJ: “Hold on. I have an idea. Lets light the dinosaur on fire and roll him through the brain, catch the fat guys attention, then we can make some demands.”

David: “Really, the “light the dinosaur on fire” again routine? Again?”

Barney the Dinosaur: “Been there, done that. Last time, he took those meds that had us all out for days.”

BJ: “Good times.”

David: “I’ll light him, open the portal.”

With that, David lit Barney on fire, BJ opened the portal and he was more or less flushed into the brain of the fat guy.

Wait a minute, I am the fat guy. How did that happen? Does that mean the assorted asshole voices in my head actually refer to me as the fat guy? How can that even be possible? Shouldn’t the voices in my head have a much more positive self image?

The office door opened and the doctor walked in. “Well, that was one fucked up phone call. Sorry, it’s personal and it would cross a lot of ethical lines to even begin to allude to any aspect of it, suffice to say, (dramatic pause) ex-wife. Anyway, the diagnosis for you stands. Let’s meet again, next week, same time.”

He stood, opened the office door, I stood, walked out and left the nondescript office building.

A couple of days later I googled Ardvark University in Omaha. It’s a college for Clowns, Dog Whisperers and Muffler Repair. I believe this will impact the diagnosis.