My Psychiatrist Doesn't Listen To Me

After my hysterectomy, I started having some serious issues with anxiety. Originally it was due to my hormones being so screwed up...but if you've ever had a panic attack, you know that after one or two..it just spirals out of control. After a trip to the hospital, convinced I was dying of a heart attack..I decided I needed help. So I sought out a psychiatrist.
My first visit with him made me feel hopeful. I don't know why. He certainly didn't say much, just acknowledged my feelings and at the time, it was enough to calm me down.

I should have paid attention to the subtleties of our interactions. I should have taken into consideration that every visit I had with him, he started to doze off while I was talking. I mean, he literally has fallen asleep and fallen forward towards his desk and I've sat there patiently waiting for him to wake up. But I chalked it up to the fact that he was in his 70's and probably overworked. I should have realized that I was repeating myself over and over again every time I saw him. But I assumed he was just trying to see if I was being truthful and maintaining the same story. I should have known that he wasn't really invested in me when he would answer his cell phone several times during our meetings. But, family is important...right??

This man has a presence all his own. He is roughly 4' 6". He hails from Pakistan and has a very thick accent which is only exacerbated by the fact that he speaks softly. Like everything he is saying is a secret. I didn't realize how small he was until one day he got out of his chair behind his formidable desk and walked across the room. There in his chair were four cushions stacked up high. When he got down..his desk came up to his chest. Nothing against people of short stature, but if you hide it..and I suddenly find out..I'm probably going to gasp a little bit.

At any rate, I couldn't be bothered to find a new doctor. He WAS nice after all. Just....a bit....unattached. Over time, I have been asked the same questions hundreds of times. My last visit had the same dialogue, but I thought I would mix it up a little.

Doc: So, how are you doing?
Me: I'm ok, the lack of sunlight is starting to really bother me..it happens every year. I thought I might try.....
Doc: (interrupting me) So what are you doing to keep yourself busy?
Me: Well, I've got band, I run a supp-
Doc: (interrupting me again) How is your family?
Me: They are good. My daughter got accepted into col-
Doc: (interrupting again) do you think the medication is working for you?
Furious scribbling on his pad of paper
Me: Ummm, yeah. I mean, I'm not hav-
Doc: (interrupting again) So how was your Thanksgiving?

And this is where I took it to a new level. I decided to see just how much he was actually paying attention.

Me: It was good, we had the family over. We ate a lot. We played games.............reindeer games. Like in Rudolph. It was fun!
Doc: (completely did NOT hear me talk like a crazy person about Rudolph and playing reindeer games) Ok, well I will see you next month.
Me: OK, doc.

That's not a cankle, it's just my socks.

I used to be barefoot, always. Unless I had to leave the house in snow..then I would grudgingly put socks and shoes on. I never thought there would come a day when I would become a sock connoisseur.

Most of you that know me, know that I developed a condition called reflexive sympathetic dystrophy in my right foot and ankle after having major surgery. I refuse to give that name upper case letters, because quite frankly, it doesn't deserve it! At any rate, one of the ongoing issues I have had is a dead cold foot. I'm not kidding when I say "dead". Sometimes it looks like I have the foot of a corpse. It's blue or purple, bloated, and ice cold. (Try to refrain from getting turned on) So needless to say, unless it is summer, (and even sometimes then) barefoot isn't an option. In fact, most times, one pair of socks is not an option. I've been known to stack 4 socks on this thing I call a foot.

This has made me a bit of a sock hoarder. Every year for Christmas, I sweetly ask Santa (Kendrick) for socks...lots and lots of socks. "Santa" always replies with, "can't you come up with a better idea? I ALWAYS give you socks!" The problem here, is that Santa is not always choosy enough with his socks and they are unwearable. For example, socks that are as thin as those nasty wafers we used to eat for communion... It takes roughly 5 of them to equal one good sock. Socks that have threading on the inside make my foot feel like there are snakes slithering around on them. Socks that are tight around the band hurt to pull over my foot and make me whine. Socks that are too big slide around and make me insane. And let's not forget about the "one size fits most" knee socks. Those suckers make my calves look like large sausages stuffed in casings that will inevitably roll down within a few minutes. I sometimes feel like I am bridezilla on the hunt for the perfect wedding dress..except in my case it's socks. I've been known to drool over a pair of socks that cost more than it takes to feed a family for a week. The internal battle is strong, and it takes an act of sheer courage to walk away from socks like that.

Apart from the amount of socks I've amassed, I look like an eccentric weirdo. Matching socks are a thing of the past. Right now, this very instant, I am wearing a thick pair of black and white slipper socks on both feet, and then a purple striped sock PLUS a red, white, and black argyle sock on the right foot. I look like a character that got turned down for a Tim Burton role. I always try to plan ahead for situations where I will have to take my shoes off. Have you any idea how hard it is to color coordinate 4 pairs of socks to an outfit???

Long ago I heard a term called "cankles". It's used to describe a leg that has no differentiation between the calf and the ankle. See: Exhibit B.

That, my dear friends..is a cankle. I used to admire my legs. I had slender ankles and fairly nice legs. I now......have a cankle. If not from days where my ankle swells up like someone has injected it with enough filler to put Goldie Hawn's lips to shame, then from the sock layers. It's not attractive. Sometimes I like to humor myself and talk lovingly to my good foot for being so pretty and shapely. I'm hoping the praise will keep it motivated to stay slender. 

I ask this of you. If you invite me over and I take my shoes off. Please understand that I am not crazy (well maybe a bit) and I did not jump into a laundry pile and choose random socks. That it is an orchestrated, thought out thing.

Also, if you see me snooping through your sock drawers..no worries. I'm not looking for sex toys, I'm looking at your sock collection. 

Smart phone blues.....

At some point I must have invited a dark entity into my phone. It's possessed. When I turn it on it looks like someones touching the screen all over the place and apps start opening, numbers start dialing, emails get sent, and pictures get taken.
I took my phone to the Verizon store to get looked at. They said they didn't know what was wrong with it. I've done hard resets, I've tried different chargers and it still behaves as though it needs an exorcism.
I wish I could say I didn't care. That I wasn't one of those people that needs their phone to make it through the day. Alas, I do and I am. My phone isn't just your run of the mill phone..it's a smart phone. I use it for emailing, calling, texting, budgeting, pictures, to do lists. You name it...my phone can (or could) do it.
Now I am left with a possessed paper weight. I tried smacking the screen and yelling, "out with ye demons!" It responded by dialing a string of numbers so long that I can only gather it was calling another demon from the underworld.
So, if you are trying to reach me, don't think I am ignoring you. I can hear your call and see your number but I can't answer you. Also, if you get a call or text from me that you can't understand.... it's a demon trying to get to you through my phone. Hang up and slowly walk away from it before it latches onto you and you are in the same boat I am.
I wish you the best. For now, I must return to the land of cellphonelessness. It's a lonely, lonely place to be.....

Children: who raises who?

A lot of people I know have little ones going into Kindergarten soon. I remember this day as clear as can be. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that I remember it because it's a sweet memory of my child. Pshaw! I remember it because I now have post traumatic stress from it. Someone should have warned me I should have taken anti-anxiety medicine that day.

Up until that day my son was with me almost all the time. I knew his likes and dislikes. I knew his quirks. I knew his fears and his loves. Then BAM! There I am handing him off to a teacher who knows so little about him. Not to mention the million other kids in his class that had to fight for attention, who probably had very poor manners, head lice, wanted to harm my child, wanted to educate my baby on things he was still clueless about, who in no way, shape, or form were as good as my child.That day was traumatic all right. I was sure he wouldn't be able to make it through the day without me by him. I was certain he was going to come home crying and tell me he never wanted to go back.

That little heathen barely missed me.

I realized this as soon as I picked him up. He didn't run to me with open arms like I was saving him from certain death. He didn't beg me to take him home.. far far away from that terrible place. In fact, I think his words were, "mama, do I have to go?"

Yeah yeah yeah I should have been happy that he was such a well adjusted child. I should have been overjoyed that he loved his first experience at school so much that he was excited to go back. I know all this, and I was.... but there was a small part of me that wanted to cuff some sense into him so he would remember that no one was as good as me and he could at least have the decency to lie and make me feel like he couldn't live without me another school day.

The years have flown and now my baby is a young man.

And I'm still pissed at him for not falling apart that day.

The audacity of that five year old.

Rules of the morning

I'm not a coffee drinker but I sure do understand the brass knuckles theory. It doesn't take much to make me feel like I want to knock the piss out of someone if they cross me in the morning.

I don't know why I'm like this. I've always a moody brat in the morning. I can remember hating mornings as a kid, I can remember sleeping through my alarm in high school. It's just gotten worse as I've gotten older. I've found little ways to not want to rip peoples throats out as I've matured. Key, though, is giving me my space and not messing up my morning routine once I'm awake. If you fail to do this, I refuse to take responsibility for you well being. I need quiet in the morning. Plain and simple. I don't want to chat, I don't want to listen to happy people yammer on and on. I don't want music or TV. I just want the damn quiet. I want to sit down and let my brain work itself back together after having sloshed around in my cranium all night.

Some people just don't understand this. Some people wake up ready to face the world with a smile a bounce in their step. I don't understand these people and some days I think that they should be sent to their own little island of happiness. That shit just isn't normal. Well, unless you are a child..I can understand that in babies and small children. They don't know what it's like to crawl out of a nice warm bed and have to face a day of jobs, housework, budgeting, and responsibility in general. I will allow them their happiness for now.

My sister has been living with us for a bit and works the overnight shift online from home. The first week she was here I would get up in the morning and walk downstairs to music playing. I wont even say blaring because it wasn't. But it was loud enough that I could hear it..and that's all it takes to irk me. I walked into the kitchen where she was sitting.. she even smiled and said, "good morning!" My response was to stick out my hand that was holding a pair of headphones and to shove it at her. She looked at me inquisitively and I said, "use these or I will freak out on you. I don't want music in my house in the morning." She laughed at me. She obviously didn't realize how close I was to slamming her fingers in her laptop and then taking said laptop outside to water with the hose. We came to an agreement after that morning though. So disaster was averted.

Kendrick likes to sleep in on the weekends. I gladly let him because that means that I can sit in quiet with no expectations. On the one morning that he was actually up before me (this morning) he wakes me with a text message. You heard me right..a text message. It read as follows, "breakfast out back love. Also have your pills and a drink ready for you." That's proof that he knows me in the morning. He has my "pills" ready. I came outside and ever so gently let him know that a text message isn't the best way to wake me up. In fact, I contemplated texting him back telling him to shove his phone and the breakfast up his ass. I would have followed that up by pulling the blankets over my head and passive aggressively staying in bed for another hour. I got up though. My breakfast was a sandwich from McDonalds. He woke me up for that?????? And to add to my frustration he had already been up long enough to run around and get chipper. I don't do chipper in the morning. He's sitting there with all the hope of a new day shining in his eyes, talking about getting our house in order for the appraisal.

Let me get this straight. You woke me with a text message. Your idea of a good breakfast was a McD's sandwich. You are talking and talking and talking.....about cleaning and painting and doing shit that I don't enjoy ANY time of the day, let alone in the morning.

So basically you got me up to prep me to start working. I'm on to you Kendrick.

That's why I am sitting here typing this blog instead of elbows deep cleaning a toilet. I will get there when I am damn good and ready and no sooner.