IT HAPPENED TO ME: My Psychiatrist Told Me She Voted for Trump

As I rode the crosstown bus, I imagined my new psychiatrist would ask how I was feeling. I had seen her for the first time a week before, after months of feeling anxious and unhinged by the deaths of two friends over the summer, overcommitments at work, and a childcare situation that seemed unbearably complicated. When my 45 minutes was up, she suggested that I come back.

In the week between our appointments, Donald Trump had been elected President and everything had changed. It seemed like my frayed nerves had been projected outward and my personal problems would need to be recalibrated in proportion to the atmosphere of shared grief and despondency.

I hoped this new doctor could help me to make sense of the changed scale of my worries. When she asked, I told her I felt so devastated by the election that I was having trouble sorting out my own sadness from the collective despair of the city around me.

I had many reasons to be demoralized by the outcome of the election. My younger son is disabled, and I was appalled at a candidate who wrote a book called Crippled America, mocked Serge Kovaleski (an investigative reporter with disabilities), and proposed to slash funding for Medicaid. That, along with his lack of experience, opposition to reproductive rights, disrespect for women and minorities, promise to deport undocumented immigrants, build a wall at the southern border, and ban Muslims from entering the country.

My older son and I had canvassed in Pennsylvania, and I had taken him to vote with me, hoping we could witness together the historic election of the first woman president. We both cried while watching the results come in on Tuesday night. Wednesday was my birthday. After staying up much of the night, I stumbled through the day in a fog of exhaustion as I met with students, colleagues, and neighbors in tears.

In such a situation, how could I gage my own mental health?

The psychiatrist cut me off.

“Rachel, let me tell you something,” she waved her pad at me. “I voted for Trump.”

I looked at her in stunned silence.

“He is a good man. I know this,” she said. “I have many good reasons. He will stop the practice of ripping babies from their mother’s wombs at six months. He will stop drugs from pouring over the border. He will get rid of people who are here illegally, committing crimes and draining our country’s resources.”

I started to argue. I told her how painful it had been to see Trump imitate a reporter with disabilities, to fear for my undocumented students, and witness a candidate run on a platform of hatred and fear.

“He didn’t do that,” she said firmly. “Those are lies, all lies from a biased liberal media.”

Suddenly, I was Harry Potter in The Sorcerer’s Stone. The person I took to be the ineffectual Professor Quirrell had just unwrapped his turban to reveal the Dark Lord Voldemort in possession of his body. But unlike Harry Potter, I am deeply averse to confrontation. As the psychiatrist lectured me, I sat frozen in my seat, retreating to some inner place for the rest of the session.

When the appointment ended, I walked out onto the sidewalk in a state of disbelief. In addition to the vitriol, one of the most disheartening features of this election cycle was the sense that the facts didn’t matter. Seemingly incontrovertible things like where Barack Obama was born or whether the climate was changing were called into question. Institutions dedicated to impartiality were contaminated with partisanship. From the Supreme Court to the news media to the pollsters, it was a tower of red and blue turtles all the way down.

Now even my doctor, whose professional duty was to care for my mental health, had suggested that my reality was a lie.

Obviously, I couldn’t see her again.

As I rode the bus back across town, I comforted myself by planning how I would find a new doctor. But that reminded me of my privilege in having a job that offers good healthcare coverage. Under a Trump presidency, thousands of Americans are likely to lose their insurance, making them unable to access treatment for mental health.

I felt again the precariousness of that pile of turtles. Red and blue falling, falling all the way down, hoping to reach solid ground.

If shes trolling shes doing a very good impression of somebody she actually knows.

The "psychiatrist" may not have even been an actual psychiatrist, I hear counselors and others referred to that way even though its not factual.

If you've listened to enough of these stories they are ALWAYS reported this way.

The way the story is reported:
"So there I was, hoo dee doo, minding my own business at the park. I was playing nice with some kid when the Mayor ran over and screamed, "FAGS SHOULD ALL DIE!" This scared someone into dropping their cotton candy so I tried to pick it up and give it back but the Mayors body guards just beat me up and put me in jail. Its all a lie they made up because they hate disableds and want me back in an institution."

The reality:
I went to a LMNOP rally to protest cisgender oppression. The Mayor showed up and talked for about an hour on the contributions of the LMNOP community to society. I yelled death threats at him because he forgot about our Furry allies. At this point the police were watching me but then a teenager eating cotton candy walked past. I spent $35 on chocolate bars at the gas station last night and couldn't afford my own. I was pissed off that someone else could afford it but I couldn't and thought, "Hey! that's not fair," so I punched him in the face. The police arrested me.

Not every day is quite so exciting. Most days do include a story more akin to:
"Bob, the regional director, sat outside last night so I went out to ask him to make my supper because I was getting hungry. He jumped up and shoved be down for no reason then ran away and I didn't have staff for the rest of the night. Im really hungry now, will you please make me something and don't let him come over here again."

Reality:
At about 3PM I saw a Red Lobster commercial and decided I wanted sea food for supper. I looked through the refrigerator and didn't see any. I went and sharpened a thick stick and waited for my staff Cynthia to come in at 4PM. I threatened to have a behavior if she didn't get lobster for me by 5PM because shes easy to intimidate and Ive gotten her to buy me things in the past. At 4:30 I destroyed by apartment and everything in it because she wasn't moving fast enough. At 5pm I started punching her so she left the apartment. I spent the rest of the evening until about 10PM chasing her around outside stabbing her and beating her with my stick. Now Im really hungry and willing to eat whatever survived my tantrum."

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