I Met a Psychiatrist in Church

His name was Dr. Walter. He was tall and slender (for his age — early 60s) and good-looking. He was — we were — sitting in a big circle of churchgoers, trying to help the world achieve social justice.

It was interesting for me, a bipolar, to meet a psychiatrist whom I didn’t have to visit every three months for medication and advice. Here was a psychiatrist who was just about my age, who was my equal, my peer.

Or so I thought. As soon as I found out he was a psychiatrist, I wanted to introduce myself to him, but I just didn’t get the chance. Then, a couple of weeks later, I was waiting at the local clinic to see my own psychiatrist, and I glimpsed — Dr. Walter. He stood behind the counter looking at a chart.

I was delighted to see him working at my very same clinic. I wanted to ask him why he was working there, how long he would be working there, and how he melded our church’s philosophy with his work, if he did. Not right then, of course. After all, he was working. I wanted to introduce myself to him and talk later.

I walked quickly to the counter, a smile opening my mouth wide. The psychiatrist looked up and immediately ran back to his office. My mind stopped for a while. Then, for several days, I wondered why he, or any psychiatrist, would run from me. That Sunday, alone in the church lobby, I was still wondering.

In walked Dr. Walter. His eyes lighted on me briefly, then quickly moved to his destination, a panel of name tags near a window. He took a tag off his lapel and hung it on the panel. I thought for a minute. He knew perfectly well who I was, and he was ignoring me anyway.

I decided to go for it. I walked over to the window and pointed out to Dr. Walter that he had just walked past me.

He turned around and started to walk away again. “And, at the clinic,” I added, “you ran away from me.”

“I didn’t run away from you,” he said firmly in his sexy French accent.

“I just want you to say hi when you see me,” I said. “It’s not as if it’s big deal.” But Dr. Walter was gone. I shrugged. I guessed that he was avoiding me because I was a consumer. What else could it be?

But, the following Sunday, he came up to me and said hi. Then he bent over to sign on some clipboard. I bent over too and said, “Pardon my insecurity.”

“Don’t lose your sense of humor,” he said, smiling.

I was surprised by his sudden warmth. “Never!” I said. I went home thinking more highly of him than I had before. Over the period of a few weeks, I developed a plan. I would ask Dr. Walter for help with my “Ask the Psychologist” column. Such a warm man would surely say yes, and I would no longer be working alone.

The following Sunday, I screwed up my courage again and asked Dr. Walter if he could help me answer “Ask the Psychologist” questions. He answered me quickly — too quickly. He said that he had retired and now he is not going to have anything to do with psychiatry. I attempted a save. I said, “Then would you like to read my website?”

“No, no,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m no longer a psychiatrist and I don’t want to even be known as a psychiatrist any more. I’m just Walter now,” he shouted cheerfully. He walked off, leaving me vaguely upset.

I can respect that he doesn’t want to do the job of psychiatrist any more. And his desire not to be pigeonholed as a psychiatrist at every meeting and party is understandable. But I’m still upset.

I had asked Walter to help people he knows badly need help and, OK, he had said no. But he had said it so gleefully. Has he not only stopped helping consumers but also stopped caring about us? When he retired, did he think consumers stopped hurting? Shouldn’t he have been the slightest bit sad to say no? If he is so glad to get away from consumers now, what was his attitude toward them when he was working with them? Could there be anyone worse than a hostile psychiatrist?

I’ll bet that, in high school, he was a good looking early-maturing boy, the kind who won every fight, got every girl, and continues to cruise through life getting good jobs and lots of money. Which would explain his smugness, his lack of compassion.

And why didn’t he want to see my website? In asking him to read it, I moved out of the realm of psychiatry into the area of a personal request. Yes, my site may have included psychiatry, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to read what I wrote at all. Why not? Because I’m a consumer. He can say he is retired all he wants, but that’s not what’s going on here. What’s going on is prejudice.

I have no trouble with Dr. Walter’s retirement in general. I have no trouble with his reluctance to read a website that would probably remind him of his work. I just take issue with his glibness as he spoke to me.

I returned home and switched on my 1996 Micron Pentium I. As it booted up, I sat down — not too hard — on my torn, squeaky office chair, wondering what fine furniture Dr. Walter was enjoying right now, wondering why it’s so hard for most consumers to amass much money.

I pulled up the “Ask the Psychologist” column and then opened my email. The first email was from a bipolar woman name Rena who had terrifying, debilitating panic attacks. She pleaded with me to help her stop them. The letters screamed from the page.

I immediately answered her. “You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “I promise.” I sent the email as fast as I could. I remembered the panic attacks I had had long ago, and my heart ached for her.

And consumers continue to struggle through our quicksand lives, wondering why we few were chosen for crippling delusions, panic attacks, and mood swings and then, once crippled, why we are derided and avoided for it.

And in the faint distance of my mind, I hear someone say in a kind voice, “I’m sorry. I’ve burned out and I can’t help consumers any more, though I know how much you are hurting.”

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