I meet the psychiatrist at the trunk of his car as I’m stomping back from the garden toward my room. He offers me a fig bar. What the fuck does a rocker want a fig bar for? Is he crazier than me? I tell him, “No, thank you, fig bars are for hippies.” I can see we ain’t gonna be getting along at all.
It’s late by the time all is settled for the night. I get to bed about one a.m. Dr. Phil’s show people are coming in the morning, because the condition upon which Phil helped me was that I had to do the show. And I had to do it before I had any treatments at this place where he had referred me. That way you don’t get to complain on camera afterward about how badly you’ve been exploited and how reckless your so-called medical care seemed at the place he recommends.
I mean, I’m not even sure anyone on my treatment team sought my medical records from any hospitals I’d been in. Including Englewood, from whence he’d plucked me. So they didn’t seem to know if I should be subjected to even one hour a week of individual trauma therapy, never mind nine hours a day. I felt brutalized. Making me even more unwell.
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