Diary Of A Psychiatrist In The Year 2027
Tranquilizer isn’t just for horses anymore.
—New York Times, 5/9/21
June 8th, 2027
7:30 AM: I wake up and struggle to remain professionally relevant. Advancements in the field of mental-health treatments have been occurring every hour on the hour since the Feds decriminalized the study of controlled substances, and after a solid night’s rest, I’m already behind the times. I feel out of sorts until I remember that I’m coming down off a tray of hallucinogens I’d sampled at the Ayahuasca Convention for Psychiatric Professionals hosted by the Drug Enforcement Agency. A yearly networking event, it starts on the White House lawn and ends, two days later, on the domed ceiling of the Capitol rotunda.
9:14 AM: I arrive at the Ketamine and Cocaine Conference with an open mind. Last year’s panel was just three pharmaceutical researchers who’d translated “The Jabberwocky” into Latin. The morning lecture, given by researcher Dr. Robyn Bates, pertains to the latest zoological studies on equine pain management with ketamine infusions and its promising application for humans. Of course, this drug has the potential to be abused, so we’re instructed in the telltale signs that a patient is not a horse, even if he claims to be one.
1:00 PM: I return to the office for an afternoon appointment with a 36-year-old woman who suffers from meme-resistant depression. Although she seems down, I anticipate a warm reaction as I show her a picture of a fat toad leaning over the edge of a bathtub with the caption: “TURN DOWN FOR WHAT.” No reaction is elicited, even after I zoom in on his comically flat butt. Clearly, the patient doesn’t perceive the obvious humor of a curious, overweight toad. It’s only then that I realize she’s unfamiliar with the old nightclub standard by DJ Snake, a fact she failed to note on her intake form. After hearing the song, I show her the meme again, and when she doesn’t laugh, I know it’s time to initiate a 5150 hold.
2:02 PM: Another patient, a man in his early 30s, arrives at my office in the middle of a terrible panic attack. I quickly review his medication list: Wellbutrin, Zoloft, and a daily hit of white blotter. I immediately spot the problem. “You’re cutting the Zoloft with too much molly,” I explain. We both have a good laugh over this, and he leaves my office duly chastened.
3:15 PM: I run out for an afternoon latté with the other psychiatrist at my practice, Dr. Hoogervorst. We talk about pairing talk therapy with hallucinogenic compounds to get to the root of our patients’ core internal struggles more expediently. He expounds on his brilliant idea to reverse PTSD with DMT, MDMA, or 5-HTP, his theory being that pretty much any group of letters will work. When we return to the office, there’s an emergency in the reception area near the babbling fountain: a patient has overdosed on CBD hand cream. I immediately administer an injection of Narcan’t, as she comes perilously close to knocking over a pile of stacked river stones that perfectly spell out “S-E-R-E-N-I-T-Y.”
4:09 PM: I see a 23-year-old woman for an outdoor “walking and talking” session. Because of her debilitating anxiety, she used to bring an emotional support pig that we allowed in the office for therapeutic benefit. I worked with both of them for months, and while she continued to struggle with her various phobias, the pig gained enough skills and confidence to find a better job.
5:00 PM: My last patient, a 29-year-old man, deals with a crippling fear of capybaras. After a few sessions wherein he ingests THC to calm his capybara-induced nausea, I suggest exposure therapy. Today I’m finally able to coax him into a room filled with fluffy capybaras that I ordered on the dark web. He lays down immediately amongst them and smiles. “Wait a minute,” I say, furrowing my brow. “I thought you were afraid of them.” Ahhh yes, duped again. The last time it was a trip to the Bahamas. Big fear of margaritas and the Bahamas, he claimed.
Sure, psychiatry has advanced, but it’s still not an exact science. Neither is repacking these capybaras into their styrofoam slots in the correct direction for a full refund. It’s going to be a long, non-billable evening.
