A visit to the Political Anxiety Specialist

A fable for 2024

Prologue

Vince and Perk had been meeting up at Torchy’s Bar once a month for years. It was a dark hangout in the heart of old downtown, halfway between their apartments, a dive that smelled of popcorn, beer, old retired newspapermen and unkempt political junkies. Perk, a semi-retired psychoanalyst and full-time rancher, wanted to know if his friend, Vince, a local writer known for his covering snide coverage of state politics had followed up on his suggestion. “How’s the new shrink working out for you?” Vince grinned, sipped his beer, set it down on the bar and turned to face Perk. Vince was happy to share the promising news with his friend. “In fact, I’m seeing him for the first time tomorrow.”

Perk patted Vince on the back. “Good. Let me know how it goes.”

First visit

It was the first time the notorious curmudgeon had seen a psychiatrist since his divorce snapped him in half like a twig twenty years ago. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, doc.”

“What brings you here today, Vince?”

“My best friend’s a psychotherapist. When I told him what was going on he said I should see one. So here I am. It’s this election, doc. It’s freaking me out. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t sleep. I’m not my usual self. I think I’m losing my mind.”

Dr. Morris immediately started scribbling notes on his yellow pad. “So you’re a Democrat.”

Vince uttered a barely perceptible laugh. “How could you tell, doc?”

“Help’s available, Vince. You don’t need to suffer. It’s going to be a long election year. I want you to know we have a range of antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, stimulants, mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics that are proven to be effective. Political anxiety happens to be my specialty.”

“I know, doc. That’s why I chose you. Every time I see a clip of Biden stumbling. I lose my mind. I don’t care how good or brilliant he might be or what great things he’s done. All the voters know is that he’s an old doddering man. Most have given up! I’m afraid we’re like Germany in the Thirties.”

Dr. Morris continued taking notes. “Many American voters suffer from what we call NADD.”

“NADD?”

“News Attention Deficit Disorder. Bad for them. Bad for the country.”

“Tell me about it. Newspapers are dying. Millions are following that psychotic lunatic. I’m terrified about the election, doc."

“When you see Biden do you get what we might describe as panic attacks? Does your pulse accelerate? Do you have trouble breathing? Cold sweats?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes!”

“We call it BAD, Vince.” It seemed to Vince as though Dr. Morris suddenly adopted a patronizing, intimate tone, like a funeral home director comforting a newly widowed old woman. “Biden Anxiety Disorder, Vince.. It’s quite common. We have just the thing. It’s very similar to Prozac.”

Vince, resigned to any solution for his agony, looked up from the floor. “I’m listening.”

“Joezac. It’s an anti-anxiety med. Calms the nerves. Kicks in after 2-weeks. There are side effects, Vince. Some nausea. Mostly drowsiness. Do you find yourself obsessing about poll numbers?”

Vince stood up to pace the floor and began rubbing his hands together. “Constantly, doc. Twenty-four seven. I can’t stop wringing my hands. Every time I see a clip from a Trump rally I lose my mind.”

“Sit down, Vince. I promise you, Joezac will help.”

Vince sat down, stared straight ahead into space and shifted to repeatedly rubbing his knees with his hands. “I’ve never been this worried about an election. His base loves him. I’m paralyzed with fear. It’s so depressing, doc. I don’t know whether to build a bunker or buy a condo in Canada. ”

“Vince, I’m also going to start you on an anti-depressant I think you’ll like: Trumpinol.”

“Trumpinol. Sure, doc. Whatever works. It’s all that my retired friends talk about when we go out to lunch. Especially the old news guys. We’re all depressed about 2024, doc. It’s never been this bad.”

Dr. Morris stopped taking notes, looked Vince in the eyes and smiled “Send them to me, Vince.”

Vince paused, thinking that was an odd response. He shook it off and said, “I will, doc.” And then he recovered his train of thought. “Doc, I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. Has the whole world gone nuts? Am I losing my mind?”

Dr. Morris laughed. “Perfectly normal, Vince.” Dr. Morris told Vince he was also adding Fuggidall to the list of medications he was prescribing..

“Sounds like Adderall, doc.”.

"Fuggidall is for election-related Obsessive Compulsive Disorders. Like chronic hand-wringing. Some report it flattens out their enthusiasm for voting. Most say Fuggidall is saving their lives. Have you seen the commercials on MSNBC? ‘Today’s election news giving you the election blues? Say Fuggidall’.”

“Huh. Can’t say I’ve seen them.”

“‘ When it’s election time-don’t lose your mind! Say Fuggidall.’ Listen, Vince, I want you to come back in 6-weeks for a followup. By then Trump will be the nominee. Give the meds a chance to work. I’m confident you’ll be much better then, Vince. Trust me. You’ll be okay. America will be fine. ”

“If you say so, doc.”

Dr. Morris told Vince what he told all his patients who were Democrats suffering from “debilitating political depression and anxiety”. Join your local Democratic Party. “Get involved. It’s very therapeutic. Knock on doors. Sign petitions. Pass petitions. Register voters. Don’t be passive, Vince..” He sounded like one of Vince’s old high school civics teachers, unenthusiastic about reciting a tired assignment list. Then Dr. Morris brightened, set down his notepad and pointed to the door of his office. “Make a followup appointment on your way out, Vince.”

When Vince met Perk at Torchy’s a week later he thanked his old friend for the nudge to get some professional help. “I like this Political Anxiety specialist. Seems alright.”

Perk was pleased Vince made the leap. “I’m glad you went, Vince. Did you see what Trump said today?”

Vince smiled like a buddha. “Are you testing me? I don’t want to know, Perk, old buddy. I don’t need to know. I’m good. Speaking of horseshit how’s the ranch?” They chuckled and tapped glasses. Vince knew this would be his last taste of alcohol until he got off the meds. Soon as the Goddam election was over.

2nd visit

“Hi, Vince, come on in. Have a seat. How’s it going?”

Dr.Morris noticed Vince looked exhausted as he shuffled over to his familiar seat. With a hint of weariness in his voice Vince said, “I joined the local Democrats in my district. Nice people. I brought you a Biden bumper sticker, Doc.”

Dr. Morris thanked Vince, put it in his desk drawer and took out a fresh notepad. “How are the meds working out for you?”

“I saw an old man at the store the other day wearing a ‘Trump 2024’ hat on his head. I wanted to ask the old fool if he knew any of the dead in Arlington. I do. I wanted to ask him if he thought wounded vets should be kept out of sight or if he thought P.O.W.s weren’t heroes. God, I hate these dumbasses. I didn’t lose it, though. I just went on my way. Laughed it off. Pictured his whole family hating him as much as I did.” Vince managed a faint smile.

Dr. Morris told Vince he was excited to try something new on the market. “Trumpalta. It’s a relaxant. It’s a Trump-Beta-Blocker. Calms the nerves.”

“Jesus, I could use some of that.” Vince whispered, “I got to tell you. Sometimes I still lose faith in the voters, Doc.”

“It has an active ingredient called Methyl Biden-ate.”

Vince wondered if Dr. Morris was listening. “I can’t sleep knowing millions of lunatics are going vote for that madman. The guy’s another Hitler! He wants to abandon the Ukraine. Like the west handed the Sudetenland over to Hitler! They’re all a goddam bunch of appeasers. Like Chamberlain.”

“Vince, watch your blood pressure. Take a deep breath, Vince. Count backwards from ten to one.”

Vince, who defied authority his entire life, complied.

Dr. Morris picked up a small bottle of red pills that had been sitting on his desk and showed it to Vince. “Trumpinol. A Pharma rep gave me these samples. Here, take them. You’ll sleep like a baby. Give these new meds a chance to work. Tell me what you think when you see me in acouple of weeks.”

Vince looked his lifeline in the eyes. “Doc, that’s when the convention will be taking place. It’ll be like a Nuremberg rally for the MAGA Nazis. I’ll lose it. I think that goddam fascist shitshow will break me.”

“I think it might be best if we up the dosage on the Joezac, Vince. Avoid TV that week. No news. No NPR. You can do this, Vince.”

"But-”

“Doctor’s orders. It’s for the best, Vince.”

“If you say so, doc.”

“Make that followup appointment on your way out.”

“Will do. Thanks, Dr. Morris.”.

3rd visit

It was late October, the election was weeks away and outside, as Vince would often say, it was colder than an editor’s heart. Torchy’s, by contrast, was dark, warm and inviting. Vince walked in, removed his gloves and sat down at the bar next to Perk. Vince was grateful the pool tables were abandoned for once. No clacking. No loud college kids. And no jerk was feeding the jukebox playing the pop music that always made him snarl. For once the place was quiet save for the hushed chatter among the forgotten newshounds and formerly important persons that still haunted the place in the afternoon. Torchy’s was so quiet Vince could actually hear Perk when he whispered. “You okay, man? How’s the shrink thing working out? The election’s coming up and you seem a little out of it.”

Vince stared at the unsatisfying ginger ale the bartender had slid in front of him. “Everyone knows you’re on the wagon.” Vince sighed and told Perk he missed drinking. “So many meds, man. So many.”

Perk was taken aback by his old friends lethargy. “Are you okay, buddy?”

“It’s the election, man. Some days I just want to give up. Just stay in bed. It’s hopeless. I think it’s the Fuggidall.”

Perk was shocked. “I thought this shrink was helping you. What’s his name?”

“Morris. Doctor Morris. With Bannon and Associates.”

Perk shook off an immediate chill. He was stunned. “Morris? Did you say, ’Morris’?!”

“Yeah. Morris! Didn’t you hear me?”

“With Bannon and Associates. He’s your guy? Didn’t you hear the news? He’s getting his license revoked. That whole office is getting closed down.”

“What?”

“Came out yesterday, man. Morris is a full-on Trumper. Accused of drugging his patients. Turning them into zombies, man.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s been obsessed with Trump since 2021. Morris told the wrong guy who told the Board and he had to go in front of the Board a week ago. Guy was a full blown conspiracy nut. The Board diagnosed him. Profound paranoia. Delusional, man. Committed to the Psychiatric Hospital on the west side.”

“You are shitting me.”

“Put him on Q-Anon-azine. Had no effect. Then they tried the whole range. Insurrectizine. Trumpadone. Nothing helped. He just got worse. And worse. Apparently he was able to hide it from his patients.”

“What about the meds he prescribed for me?”

“He’d been prescribing drugs containing apathy inducing agents to all his liberal patients. All of them. And these schedule II durgs were specifically designed to treat patients suffering from political hyperactivity disorders like manic petition passing.”

“Jesus.”

“You can’t tell these days, Vince. I had this neighbor who got Covid. She told me the next thing she knew two of her neighbors knocked on her door. Glazed look in their eyes. What they did next blew her mind. They offered her Ivermectin. Ivermectin! She thought she knew them. Total Trumpers. All those years they lived in the same neighborhood! She said it’s like ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’.”

“I’m flushing everything down the toilet.”

“Last thing you want is that crap in the water supply. Give the pills to me. I’ll handle it. As for Morris, there’s more.”

“More?”

Perk nodded. “I heard he had a Rush Limbotomy on Tuesday. Followed by Electoral Shock therapy. Couldn’t dent it. It’s like pedophilia. This Trump addiction thing is near impossible to treat.”

“Damn, Perk. It is like ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’! You just can’t tell.”

On the TV over the bar Wolf Blitzer was speaking into the camera. Vince heard him say, “The most important election in American history, coming up next Tuesday.” He looked up at the familiar panel of talking heads. Perk and Vince, filled with dread, looked at each other. And then together, they turned on their bar stools and looked over their shoulders, around the crowded bar, at old acquaintances who now were all suspect. Bill the old bartender walked over to the Vince and Perk. “Get you anything?” They both shook their heads. Bill wiped the bar, picked up the remote and changed the channel. The patrons groaned at the sight of the FOX logo.

Perk’s jaw dropped. “Oh. My. God.”

There was the disgraced Morris, microphone clipped to his lapel, waiting to be interviewed. The red crawl crawling across the screen beneath his face, the face of a persecuted man, read, “renowned psychoanalyst’s career ruined for beliefs…Trump texts ‘Morris a victim of…”

Vince barked at Bill, “Turn it off, man, turn it off! Jesus Christ.” Perk agreed. “Turn that fucking thing off.”

Bill was stunned at his old customer’s fury. “What did I do?”

Vince and Perk gestured to Bill to not say a word. They were out of there. Both men got up and quickly stumbled out of the bar, as if they’d seen the apocalypse. “What’s with them?” Bill said to the lone woman drinking at the end of the bar. She looked up from her empty glass. “You got me, Bill. This Goddam election’s making every crazy.”