Oye! I went with a sweet friend a while ago as moral support to help her check out a new psychiatrist. Dr. Quack (not his real name) had a friendly office staff and a pleasant waiting room. Friend and I had been having a great visit, laughing and talking when he called us in.
Dr. Loco seemed fine, if a little antsy as we began talking, but then he decided that it was too bright in the room, so he TURNED OFF THE LIGHTS to make us "more comfortable." Uh, not so much. (Insert Twilight Zone music here)
Then he proceeded to try to change my friend's diagnosis, meds, and accused her of having a traumatic experience as a four-year old. Doc Bonkers then announced he would issue a "test".
"Doctor Daffy says, 'Count backwards from 100 by 7s.'"
My friend gamely started to subtract--I couldn't make eye contact at this point. "Uh, 100, 93, 8, uh eighty-uh..." We both started to laugh our heads off. (Which, if you think about it, is a healthy response to diffuse tension.)
"No! I need you to be serious!" Shouts Dr. Distress.
Deep breath. "Uh, OK. 100, 93, uh, 86, 89, wait, no!"
"Now. How are you feeling?" Doom.
"I guess I'm embarrassed because I can't do simple math."
"WRONG!!! You're anxious! WHY can't you express your true emotions!?! We're going to need to work on this."
It went downhill from there. If we didn't go into the visit neurotic, we were both surely psychotic when we left.
Turns out that Doctor Dweezle doesn't accept credit cards, so we had to drive to the gas station to get $200 in cash! Friend declined to make a return appointment. It wasn't really a "good fit."