Their Whole Fucking Job

 I was walking the dog around the horse unit with mom, who was walking her puppy too, when I mentioned to my mom that the voices were especially bad today. She said she was sorry. 

"I think I'm going to leave Dr. [Ba.] a note," I say.

"Why? He's not going to do anything but put a note in your chart."

"I'm tired of talking to myself," I say exasperated. 

"Has your doctor not told you? There's nothing they can do, and the symptoms are just going to get worse."

"I don't want to hear that," I reply honestly. "[IP] says there are always things to try." I always wince whenever I mention IP to anyone who doesn't know how I truly feel about the man.

"Then let's talk to [IP]." 

I don't want to explain to my mother that I would have to be re-hospitalized in order to be under IP's care. I can't send IP a cry for help letter. It's strictly against the rules we set up before we started emailing each other. 

 I'm supposed to be able to talk to my doctor when I feel a crisis looming in the horizon. When I last talked to Dr. Ba. during our last session, he didn't seem to be particularly concerned about the auditory hallucinations. He was more preoccupied with his new promotion (but he will still be seeing a small number of patients, me included), replacing one of my favorite doctors (who luckily, for me, is not retiring). Again, I don't believe Dr. Ba. gives a shit about how I'm doing. Psychiatrists are doctors who prescribe medications for mental illness. That's their whole fucking job. That's what he should be doing or I'm wasting my time driving up there, three hours one way.