A panel of doctors would be great, in theory,
had I some heretofore unknown disease
and was bleeding from my eyeballs.
But this is a job interview that got lost on its way
to a board room, turned left into a pit of jackals,
and in a fit of hysteria took up medical practice.
I sit on one side of a long table opposite five of them—
two psychiatrists, two counselors, and something called family
relations—in a box with white-washed walls—no convenient focal points.
Questions drone on—my friends, my boss, my mother—scribbles
are scratched, pages are flipped and flipped. One psychiatrist taps
a folder and his cohort asks, Do you like being depressed?
My skills and past experiences fail me. Can we skip
the behavioral interview portion,
please?
* * *
In the common area, I’ve staked my claim on a chair.
I park myself there, checking boxes for weekly activities.
Speaking with months backing him, Robert advises
productivity, Don’t do enough, the panel brings you in.
We are both cornered and recruited for the new counselor
and her new activity—Together we’ll make plans
to cope with and prevent anxiety—not because
Robert and I are particularly anxious people,
but we have an empty time slot.
During the first session, there are only the two of us,
but the counselor is bubbling over, Teamwork! You must
learn that it’s okay to ask for help. Across from me,
Robert mouths help—
He is all eye-rolls and distracted doodles.
This is not his first time playing guinea pig.
Our attention lost, the counselor switches
tactics, suggesting we individually read
provided packets on triggers, And come up
with a solution so this is no longer a problem.
Robert prevents me from turning the cover page
with a steady hand placed on top of mine
and meets the counselor’s eyes, It’s not a virus.
It doesn’t just go away.