The latest arrival to my mental health journey is Dr. Mandolin. I stumbled across her and I’m sort of wondering what debt I’ll have to pay off in my next life because I hit paydirt.
In the world of mental health, there is a paucity of good providers. A life or death kind of shortage. I had lost Dr. Davis and was 3 months without a psychiatrist. And, since I’d recently just lost the Ferrari of psychiatric providers, there was no way in hell I’d ever go back to a Toyota. Ever. Yes, I am aware that this is privilege. Through a series of bumbling errors, I finally found a new psychiatrist who is spectacular. Dr. Durga and I haven’t interacted enough for me to wax poetic, but it’s forthcoming. Anyway, she and I knew I needed a therapist, but finding one was impossible. She would cast her net and hopefully we could find something together.
So many good therapists don’t take insurance, because duh. Working with insurance companies sucks; practitioners are hamstrung by bureaucratic pathologies that render our current pay-for-care system a huge nightmare. Those that do work with insurance companies have a waitlist. Essentially, you’re waiting for someone to die or be cured, and the former seems to happen with far greater frequency than the latter. Hence my comment above about life and death. Mental health issues don’t wait for practice schedules to open up and neither do the voices in your head. When you’ve got a prickly diagnosis like me, a run-of-the-mill therapist won’t do. I am well beyond standard talk, DBT, or CBT. Frankly, I don’t have the time or energy to focus on calming my chi.
If this new person didn’t have experience with complex trauma, it would be a waste of my time and theirs. Plus, I didn’t want to have to tell my story more than was absolutely necessary. What I needed was Tony Soprano’s consigliere, someone that had come up through the ranks as a soldier and then capo. This person needed to be comfortable doling out advice with authority, who knew the ins and outs of trauma, and wasn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Incidentally, I also needed to feel comfortable crying and being real with this person. And I’m not so good at letting anyone see all of me. It’s a tall order. Especially holding me accountable when I want to jump ship and go back into hiding. Paradoxically, this person also needs to give off warmth, understanding, and compassion. I was looking for a needle in the haystack.
Enter Dr. Mandolin, who is kind of a big deal in the world of clinical neuropsychology. She’s got a PhD and all sorts of other professional accolades suitable for being the namesake on a research lab. She specializes in trauma and has a particular bent towards people like me. For once in my life, I had all the traits that made me an ideal candidate for, well, anything. As someone who has spent her whole life feeling unworthy and less-than, this was a dream. A backwards dream, but I won’t complain.
I believe in the scientific method and really hope that others can benefit from this shitshow I’m enduring. Dr. Mandolin seems to like the forensic dig and cerebral excavation to pour into her research. I’m kind of getting to pay it forward. Long term trauma, the kind with all sorts of interesting manifestations, bolsters the body of knowledge that focuses on trauma. Though I will go on record now expressing my apologies for being the outlier case or skewing her data because I bring a lot of crap with me. Anyway, the time invested with Dr. Mandolin bodes well for me and for those that come after. There is someone that studies my symptoms, thoughts, burdens, and grossly distorted reality. Which is the long way of saying that there is hope.
Fortunately, I’m able to deliver the mother lode to Dr. Mandolin. My trauma began when I was 2 and included all sorts of fun things like walking around chanting at imaginary demons at age 5, finding my dead cat in the freezer when I was 11, hearing my dad talk about how to kill the bird with Number 2’s sleeping pills, seeing my pregnant mother in physical altercations with my dad at church, constantly ducking the flying objects at home, being forced to drop out of high school to care for my younger sibling because my mother was unfit and my dad was busy sleeping with my mom’s sister, and so much more. So, so much more.
I hate to discuss the physical characteristics of women because outward appearance has no bearing on how women do their job or, well, exist. Society doesn’t do it for men, and I refuse to bolster the narrative about physical conformity to some outdated ideal of femininity or womanhood. That said, my mind captures very small details and they reverberate around my head like a ping pong ball, and I would hone in on the same details if my practitioner was male.
To talk about Dr. Mandolin without telling you what I see when I’m talking to her feels like it lacks authenticity. When we are in session and she speaks, I don’t just hear her, a symphony of characteristics collide to make her words reverberate. All of the things I see make her who she is. The entire purpose of this blog is to share my experience, first hand, with other survivors of trauma. It is also to share with those who have never experienced trauma so they might be more compassionate as they walk through life bumping into people like me.
When the Zoom session started, I was awe-struck. Dr. Mandolin is exactly how I’d imagine Queen Atossa to look from ancient Persia. The wife of King Cyress the Great, Atossa is believed to have been quite striking in form as well as presence. History reveals that she was a formidable queen, maintaining her comportment and position through very turbulent times. My studies never revealed any atrocities committed at her hand, so if there happen to be any, that aspect does not mirror my new cerebral savant. Though the queen had significant power, she was neither frivolous nor flagrant with it. She was of the aristocracy and monarchy, and many believe Atossa wore her crown well because of her ability to navigate the political terrain with stability and resolve.
So, as I sat in front of my MacBook talking to my new psychologist, I couldn’t get my head out of the damn history books. Some hand drawn rendering of what modern humans think people in antiquity looked like and it’s usually on yellow paper. You know what I’m talking about. As hard as I tried not to, I kept making this mental comparison. Nevertheless, Dr. Mandolin’s hair is thick, dark, and the ends dance just below her collarbone when tucked behind her ears. The darkness of her hair leans more towards deep and richly brewed coffee rather than a raven’s wing. It is in stark contrast to her absolutely flawless, ivory skin. Her dark eyes are warm and inviting, yet deep and pensive. When I am talking with Dr. Mandolin, I can see that she’s thinking through her eyes, regardless of her facial expression.
She has an impeccable energy and she is poised, cohesive, not scattered. Note that this has nothing to do with her clothing choices; its entirely her and not to be confused with a sense of style, which speaks to how well a person’s outward appearance is perceived. Dr. Mandolin’s presence exudes outwards. Which is to say that any adornments (clothes, jewelry, etc…) are perceived as deliberately curated. Honestly, she could likely pull off the same yoga pants I wear to Target as dress slacks for dinner off Broadway.
Her make-up is minimalist and sophisticated, which I would normally not mention. But, her eyes talk when her lips aren’t, and it’s not because she’s mastered the smokey eye look of Hollywood. Part of their expressiveness is because of her eyebrows, which convey deep thought, and are shaped to arched perfection. There is no flash with regard to her, let alone eye makeup. The problem is, despite her conversant eyes, I don’t know what the hell she’s thinking. I suppose this is the hallmark of a good psychologist.
Dr. Mandolin is somewhat of a paradox to me, a human riddle to be solved; I’d love to find out what she’s thinking when I say crazy shit in our sessions. I used the term, “raw dogging” in our last session and noticed an ever-so-slight upward movement of her lips, indicating a smile. She could be a poker champion if she didn’t already have a day job. Instead, she’s likely running through Maslow’s hierarchy of needs as I prattle on. Who knows, maybe she’s figuring out world peace. I’m not sure.
Dr. Mandolin rarely smiles, which is not to say that she looks angry or mean. Quite the opposite, in fact. She’s warm and inviting and when we’re in session, she is locked in. But there is no big, toothy grin. Her questions reflect attentiveness and they are formed with precisely chosen words. Dr. Mandolin is also eloquently evasive, which I believe to be one mark of high intelligence, because it’s a skill honed over time and is unique to each communication dyad. It requires constant refinement based upon the audience. I have only met three other people in my life that could pull it off without looking stupid or sounding like a pejorative asshole.
When asked if I’m the “only person who feels X” she replies with a non-answer answer. Even by saying, “no, Stuart, you aren’t the only one feeling X,” she would still be giving out too much information. This is to say, nothing will make her break the confidentiality of her patients, and I detected it almost immediately upon meeting her. When we are in session, I am her only patient…nothing and nobody else matters. Well, at least that’s how she makes me feel. Her professional ethics and standards ooze off of her, and I’m starting to feel like I have found my vault.
My journey with Dr. Mandolin is in its infancy. I am cautiously optimistic because I’ve seen so many different providers and nothing has ever changed. Until now; now feels different. So, I hold out hope for my personal Queen Atossa, that she will help guide me through the most turbulent times in my head and help usher me out the other end of my storm. I’ve barely started my journey, but her crown seems securely attached and she knows the landscape ahead.
