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The family doctor listened to my story and gave me a two-week prescription for Prozac. He too seemed skeptical of the attention deficit disorder diagnosis, though he is not as dull-witted as the last fellow I saw (I don't think I wrote about him here, but he sent me on a wild goose chase to find this "wonderful, wonderful" psychiatrist friend of his who turned out to be completely uninterested in me or my problem, telling me in a voice saturated with contempt that he didn't know anything about ADD and anyway, "I don't like the drugs they have for it." He left me with the feeling that I had despicable taste in diagnoses, as if I had bought mine at K-Mart and was trying to wear it to a state dinner. He also suggested, offhandedly, that I consult the Amen Clinic in Fairfield, though when I said I had been warned to stay away from there, he admitted that he knew absolutely nothing about it other than that it treats people with ADD. He then conveyed the phone equivalent of a shrug and hung up).
Anyway the family doctor, Dr. Zilch, wants me to try the Prozac and come back in two weeks. I'm not sure why I have to go back in two weeks, since according to them Prozac doesn't kick in for two to four weeks, but what the hell. I guess we can determine if I am turning into a werewolf and if not, continue on this long and tiresome journey to the conclusion that Prozac is not what I need. Mostly I love writing those $15 co-pay checks. We used to talk about being nickeled-and-dimed to death, but now I know I'm going down fifteen dollars at a time.
So, the medical profession is wearing me out. I keep thinking, Thank God there's nothing really wrong with me. (Yet).