just so you know, i'm a proud 'f*cking pansy'

"My grandparents didn't take any pills, and they were fine. Just buck up and get over it. Stop being such a fucking pansy." — Bijou Phillips, actress and Scientologist, on treatment for depression.

A bit ago, I declared my intent to return to therapy and I just wanted to proudly declare that I made good on that. The hardest part, actually, was finding the right therapist. I may have found the one for me.

I assumed it would be hard to fill Dr. W's big shoes. I admired her so much. She was all sorts of smart with multiple degrees and was even a lawyer in a previous life (not sure how she made the transition from lawyer to shrink but it doesn't seem completely out of the realm of reason). Moreover, and likely the reason why we bonded, Dr. W was a proud feminist and liberal and she had no problem discussing politics with me whenever something political was bothering me or making my job difficult.

I had some misgivings about Dr. D, the new shrink (mostly because Dr. W was awesome and everyone else would probably just be a huge let down), but she was a female shrink practicing in Northern Virginia with evening hours so I thought I would give her a go. I found her through the match.com for shrinks, Psychology Today, and her profile indicated her various therapy techniques, all of which I was familiar with because of my job.

On paper, she seemed alright. But there seemed to be something missing...

While on the bus on my way to the visit, It occurred to me that I hadn't really googled her and maybe that was why I felt that I was forgetting something. After all, Google is the best way to gather dirt on someone and I wanted to know exactly what I was getting myself into. I used my phone to google her and after the first several hits yielded info on her practice (some user reviews would've been nice but were non-existant), the hits after that were particularly intriguing.

They were links to her political donations. And there were many.

With some trepidation, I checked out those links. One indicated that she had donated to Bill Clinton's campaign. Another link led to information about her donation to the Kerry campaign. Yet another link indicated she had supported Hillary at some point. And the final link I clicked on displayed all the information regarding her many donations to the Obama campaign.

So, my shrink is a liberal. JACKPOT!

Pre-therapy jitters aside, I walked into my appointment with Dr. D feeling pretty confident. I felt even more at ease when I saw both of Obama's books sitting on her extensive bookshelf (which took up the length of two walls). Dr. D and I chatted for over an hour during which we discussed the following in order:

• My issues, of which there are many so I gave her the Cliff Notes version as an intro
• Gay marriage and why it's wrong to deny them the right to marry
• Condoms and what the Catholic Church doesn't know about AIDS prevention
• The Church sex abuse scandal (and boy did she have some disturbing inside details)
• Being lapsed Catholics and how that affects our mothers
• My issues again (I told you there were many)

I never did come clean about my googling (so she had no idea that I already knew she tends to vote Dem) and she was the one who instigated the conversation about gay marriage. At some point in the middle of our politically heated conversation, she said, "You know, I don't usually talk politics with someone on their first visit. I eventually figure out whether someone is liberal or conservative down the line. But with you, I just knew..."

Yeah, that was a little bizarre. Maybe my body emits some kind of liberal pheromone.

Regardless, I feel that she gets me. She's no Dr. W, but I think that's ok.  Perhaps I lucked out and found the right therapist for me right off the bat. Only time will tell.

i don't do new year's resolutions. however...

Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.

My experience with New Year's resolutions has always been one of disappointment. In the past, I've set, what I assumed to be, attainable goals and then I ended up not attaining them or veering off the path of attainment (is that a word?) shortly after the second week of January. Rather than set myself up for failure, I have decided that I am NOT a New Year's resolution type of gal and I have been satisfied with this decision.

So why am I talking about this 5 days after New Year's Day?

Honestly, there is a void in my life and there has been for quite some time (about a year now). And this void has only become increasingly obviously apparent over the last few weeks so it's time for me to do something about it. And since a new year brings a new beginning or a chance to wipe the slate clean or start over (depending on your perspective), I needed to make a change.

I'm going back to therapy.

While I'm sure this news is sure to disappoint my mother when I tell her (the Latino community prefers to keep its mental health issues on the DL), I find myself so emotionally tired lately. I've been carrying the burden of many people's issues on my back and in my heart with no outlet of my own (this statement is not aimed at anyone in particular--although I am thinking of my mom as I type this). Though I never hesitate to be there for people as a friend and to listen to them and their problems (and to offer a solution if I am able to do so), I am waiting for someone to say to me, "So how are you?" just so I can open my flood gates too.

This hasn't happened.

This means that, despite the occasional venting session with Jesse (whose answer to everything is "don't worry, everything will be ok"), I keep everyone's problems and my own problems to myself and I feel like I'm drowning. I simply can't do this on my own any more. And a trained mental health professional seems like my life line at this point.

The hard part is finding someone I like. Long time blog peeps probably remember me blogging about Dr. W, my previous shrink extraordinaire. She was awesome. Can't go back to her though because she doesn't take my insurance any more.  I'm going to miss her. 

Have you guys ever tried the "Find a therapist" feature on Psychology Today? It's like Match.com but for people seeking a therapist. Seriously, there are profiles with photos and providers describing their areas of expertise and their preferred methods of treatment.  I found providers who talk about their pets, who provided pics of their most recent vacation and who mentioned what they loved to do in their free time.  If I had spent more than just a few minutes on it, I'm certain I would've found a therapist who likes romantic movies and long walks on the beach.

Still, I found someone who seems alright on paper. My first appointment with her is next week. I guess I won't know anything until then.

Well...I do know that I need to start taking care of myself. This seems like a pretty good start.

a time to heal, a time to speak out

I suppose this should be my Virginia Tech shootings commemoration post. I should be reminding you about how awful that day was, not just for the students, but for the community of Blacksburg and its far reach. I should be telling you about how I found out about the shootings (while at work, at my desk), about how I found out that a friend was in that building (Jesse called, he is a good friend he went to Tech with), about how we felt until we knew he was ok. I should tell you about what it felt like to watch the news, to see the faces of the victims in pictures during happier times. I should tell you about the strength of the community of Blacksburg, Hokies who bleed orange and maroon, who came together and rose above this horrifically tragic event.

But that's not what this post is about.

In my therapy sessions following the shootings last year, I shared with Dr. W (a VA Tech alum herself) my feelings regarding the shooter (I know his name but can't bring myself to type it). I wanted to blame him, especially after his tape came out. I needed someone, something to blame. But I couldn't blame him. And I was frustrated. Dr. W found herself in the same predicament.

We both knew why.

He appeared to be mentally ill. In my attempt to comprehend why something like this could happen to such a friendly, humble community, I was thirsty for knowledge about the shooter. I couldn't watch enough CNN or read enough articles. The shooter was ill. It was recognized at an early age and nothing was done about it. He was sent to a therapist, but it didn't stick. His parents chose to send him to church instead. But not all prayers end in miracles. And unfortunately, the mental condition of the shooter deteriorated to the point where murder and suicide were the only answers.

Well, why chose church over therapy? Why not go back to therapy after the prayer thing didn't work? Why was the family determined to keep this 'problem' within the family? Why not reach out to resources that are available in circumstances such as these?

Stigma, that's why.

In some cultures, having a mental illness is so socially undesirable that it would be better to keep it secret than to do anything about it. In our big brother culture here in the U.S., people don't seek treatment because they are afraid of someone finding out, resulting in social, political, and economical (job-related) ramifications. When I was depressed, I felt guilty about seeking treatment because I figured that there were people out there who needed it more than I did. People pop prozac like candy here but everyone's afraid to talk about being depressed. Why?

Why are we afraid to talk about mental illness? Why are we afraid to seek help? Is it so wrong to be labeled as depressed, anxious, schizo if you're actively in treatment for it? Wouldn't it be better to seek treatment than to suffer in silence as the problem escalates?

As I said earlier this week, if you were diagnosed as diabetic, would you be ashamed to ask for insulin?

Had the shooter remained in therapy, would we have had a 4/16? Had his parents supported him and acknowledged his illness, would things have been different? Would the shooter have felt isolated or desperate had he been treated for his condition?

There's nothing we can do about him now, but what about the next potential shooter?

Today, on the first anniversary of 4/16, I am calling for an end to stigma. I want people to feel free to seek help if they need it. I want people to be unafraid of losing their friends, jobs, significant others because they are ill. I want people to support, unconditionally, any friend or family member with mental illness. And if they are not in treatment, I want people to encourage their friends or family members to seek it.

My name is Liz.
I have generalized anxiety disorder.
I suffer from panic attacks and separation anxiety.
I was in weekly therapy for treatment (and will resume therapy now that I have insurance again).
I have family and friends who know this and still love me.

And I'm ok.

There's no shame in that.

the drugs are very effective. i want to be on them.*

I'm uninsured. I have been since I started my new job at the
beginning of January. Which is a strange position to be in when you
work for someone who provides free or low-cost health care to people
in DC who can't afford health care. I am now one of them apparently.

My employer takes this whole 90-day probationary period really
seriously. I don't have any benefits I can use for the first three
months of my employment. I accrue vacation and sick time but am not
allowed to use it. And I don't get any health insurance until after
the 90 days.

This sucks. I am on so many medications. Well, first off, there's
the birth control, which is an every day thing. Then there's the two
different medications for migraines (which I get when I've been sleep
deprived or stressed or both), one of which doesn't have a generic.
And then there's the two medications I'm on for my generalized anxiety
disorder, both of which are daily and one of which doesn't have a
generic.

I'm running out of my non-generic anti-anxiety pill. And it's
freaking me out. Because I still don't have insurance.

I've been running low on this drug for a couple of weeks now. When I
noticed I only had a few left in the bottle, I started rationing the
pills out. I began to take them every other day. Mind you, I'm
supposed to take them daily in order for them to be effective.

And boy are they effective. In fact, it wasn't until I started to
take them every other day that I realized just how I different I am
when I'm on them. I'm calm and rational. I don't let the little
things get to me. I sleep really well. And most importantly, I
haven't had a panic attack in a really long time.

Last week, on my 90th day of employment, I submitted my paperwork for
health insurance. I had been looking forward to that day for a while.
In fact, my aide had been counting down for me too. I had told her
about having to pay full price for birth control and how I was OD-ing
on vitamins every day so I wouldn't get sick (and I'm pretty sure I
won't be getting scurvy this year). She understood how important it
was to be insured.

When I submitted my paperwork, the HR lady told me that I didn't
qualify for health insurance until the 1st of May (she had her reasons
which don't make much sense but I will spare you the legal mumbo jumbo
here). I did my best to remain calm and composed, but the minute I
began the walk back to my office, I started to gasp for air. My body
tensed and my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.
I tried to take long deep breaths and felt like there wasn't enough
oxygen in the air for me to breathe. I was starting to have a panic
attack.

Not wanting my aide to see me in this state, I walked around the
neighborhood, trying to think of a solution to my problem. I
desperately needed refills on all of my drugs. But how was I going to
afford it? But instead of finding a solution, I became angry and
frustrated. Negative thoughts filled my brain. I couldn't have
health insurance right now because of some stupid administrative
reason. I alternated between stress and anger for awhile. I walked
slowly and timed my breathing in an effort to thwart the panic attack.
I tried every relaxation technique my shrink ever taught me (BTW, I
can't see her any more because I don't have health insurance and can't
afford to pay her out of pocket). They distracted me, but I was still
upset. I had no choice but to go back to my office in this state.

Immediately upon walking in, my aide knew something was wrong. I
broke down and told her. She countered by taking me out to lunch. It
was a pleasant and welcome distraction.

It's been a week and I've been waiting to hear if there's a way around
that administrative loop hole so I can be insured. I haven't taken my
anti-anxiety medication in 5 days. Every day, I am on the edge. My
whole body is waiting for the world to come crashing down. Every
little thing irritates me and makes me want to scream inside. I can't
believe that I lived this way for so long. I really don't want to
continue like this. I've been back to my old life for a few days and
already I want out.

I have one pill left. It's a tiny reminder of how much that
medication has changed me and helped me. I'm not sure why I've held
on to that one pill. Taking it now would make it completely
ineffective.

*This is the first in a series of honest and personal posts about mental
illness. The series will culminate on April 16th, 2008, the one year
anniversary of the shootings at Virginia Tech.

every once in a while, the stars align and fate has a little fun

This weekend was all about family--Jesse's family, that is. We spent Saturday with his sister and her family as it was Jesse's nephew's birthday party. And Sunday was Jesse's dad's birthday dinner. And Monday was about errands (oh joy!).

Saturday was shaping up to be a typical family gathering, except with more children as all of Chauncey's friends were going to be at the party (Chauncey = Jesse's nephew). Before we got to the party location, Jesse and I made a quick stop to Best Buy to buy a present. Afterwards, we drove down Columbia Pike in search of a CVS in order to buy a Christmas card. Although Jesse and I have been living in Arlington for over a year now, neither of us had really ventured down Columbia Pike past Rte. 7. So as we kept driving, we had no idea where we were going, but a CVS had to be close. CVSes are about as abundant as Starbucks these days so we figured it was only a matter of time before we came across one.

Well, Jesse and I started getting antsy because we had driven for a while and hadn't seen a CVS. However, we did see a Harris Teeter. Grocery stores have to have birthday cards, right? So, we turned and headed into the Harris Teeter parking lot. We rushed into the store and picked out a card and left. On our way out the door, I saw someone I recognized. I didn't have my glasses on and it was night time so it was kinda dark. But I saw someone who resembled my shrink.

This older woman was approaching the Harris Teeter entrance with a shopping cart. She saw me and said, "Oh my goodness." Upon closer inspection (and hearing her voice), I recognized the older woman. It was my shrink. She looked so normal outside of her office. I responded, "Dr. W, oh my God. It's you." Jesse, who was a step ahead of me, stopped and turned. I motioned to hug Dr. W and she reciprocated so we embraced.

Hugging my shrink was strange yet comforting at the same time. I would never think to hug my primary care physician, but my shrink is different. She knows me, she knows things about me that even my family doesn't know. I've spent quite some time with her and we've built a camaraderie of sorts. She's not my friend, but she's not just an acquaintance. I was comforted by the fact that she was willing to hug me back, considering our patient/shrink relationship.

As I broke away from the hug, I looked at Jesse and introduced them. "Jesse, this is Dr. W. Dr. W, this is Jesse," I said, nervously. After all, Jesse had been the subject of many a visit to my shrink and, here they were, meeting for the first time. Naturally, Jesse didn't feel the slightest bit awkward. He shook her hand, saying, "Dr. W, it's nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you." Dr. W smiled graciously and didn't return the 'I've heard so much about you too' sentiment. After all, that would probably be a HIPAA violation. Dr. W and I made some small talk about my job and even scheduled our next visit. As we parted ways, this time Dr. W initiated the hug and we said our good byes.

As we walked away, Jesse was saying, "Wow. What are the odds that we would wind up lost in NoVA, looking for a CVS, end up at a Harris Teeter, and run into Dr. W?" Stunned about the whole situation, I quietly said, "Yeah." Jesse continued, "I mean, that's a really big coincidence, you know. We've never even been in this part of Virginia. She probably lives around here. Did you even know that she lives around here?" Still shocked, I replied, "No."

We got into the car and I was still thinking about the freakin' big coincidence of running into my shrink. I was quiet and Jesse noticed. He said, "I forgot to thank her." I snapped out of my shock. "Thank her for what?" I asked. He answered, "Thank her for all that she's done for you." For us, I thought. I said, "That's ok."

The truth is that Jesse and I are in a really good place right now. Our relationship is now progressing as I had hoped it would. The deadline is a thing of the past and that other thing never came to fruition. And yes, my shrink was a part of getting us there. But Jesse and I are the ones who did all the work.

We've learned a lot about each other and ourselves as a couple. And we've come away from the whole experience with a really strong foundation for something really good.

a long metro jouney into night

Last night, I got on the Metro after my visit with the shrink. When the Orange Line train finally arrived, I entered the second to last car. It was nearly empty. I sat near the door, but not in the seats reserved for those with special needs. I pulled my tote bag in my lap and hugged it close to me as I replayed the dialogue with my shrink in my head.

My head is telling me it’s over, but my heart is desperately hoping that my head is wrong. Why is it so hard to take this next step?

Despite myself, my eyes well up with tears. At the same time, the Metro train continues to fill up. This is expected as it is rush hour. What I had not expected was the lump in my throat. Go away, Lump.

I let my mind take over my heart. How am I going to start a new job and find a place to live? Damn it. I’ve been here before. That’s how I ended up moving in with him.

My eyes well up, but this time, I can’t help myself. A tear escapes. As soon as the tear begins its slide down my cheek, I wipe it away and hope that no one notices. People are standing all around me now. My seatmate is organizing his iTunes playlists on his laptop. On the inside, I sigh. It appears that no one has seen my tears.

I let my mind take over again. Maybe if I start looking for a place now, I can slowly move out. My heart hurts at the thought of leaving him. He’s the love of my life. How can I walk away?

My eyes well up again. The lump in my throat is so large, I can’t swallow. The people who were standing all around me have started to get off the train. The sea of bodies parts. Diagonally across from me is a man. He’s older. Wrinkles of age and wisdom line his face. He looks at me and I can’t hide. He knows that I’m a ticking time bomb of emotions. Maybe he can hear the ticking getting faster.

He sees me as I really am. I’m the sad girl. The girl withholding so much inside. The girl who wants to cry but can’t.

He looks at me with sympathy and I turn away. I know deep inside that things will get better. But I just can’t see that right now.

The train arrives at Ballston, finally. I get up and the man’s eyes follow me. He’s concerned but doesn’t say anything. On the inside, I say, Thank you.

I rush out and get in to a cab. Just a few more minutes.

The cab driver drops me off at the condo. I unlock the front door and rush into the bedroom.

I am not home alone.

I lock the bedroom door. Ok, Heart. It’s your turn now.

I let my heart take over now. And the tears begin to flow. Slowly at first. And then vigorously. My body shakes.

And then my heart is done.

All that is left now is a person I don’t recognize. An empty shell. A hole that used to be filled.

A broken heart longing to be healed.

i don’t want to be your hero

When I was younger, I remember basketball bad boy Charles Barkley saying something about how he didn’t want to be a role model. And truly, the guy should’ve been no one’s hero. But then again, I don’t really see the appeal in making heroes out of athletes.

While in therapy on Wednesday, I thought of Charles Barkley and his role model comment and I told my shrink, “I don’t want to be a hero.” I had relayed to her my work drama that I had briefly and vaguely described on Wednesday’s post. The drama has died down a bit, but it’s still there. Apparently, my co-workers expect me to stand up for them before I leave. They want me to try and change their work environment. But I just want to leave this all alone.

The activist in me is definitely going to say my piece in my exit interview. However, the reality is that I’m not leaving my job because I’m bitter or resentful. I’m leaving because I found my dream job. While working for my current employer, I realized that this job was making me unhappy because it wasn’t what I wanted to do. So I went out and looked for what I wanted to do. And now that I’ve found it, the last thing I want to do is burn bridges.

Nonetheless, I actually do have some concerns about the office and will voice them when the time comes. Yet, I’m not doing this for my coworkers. I just think that some changes will only make the organization better and perhaps the powers that be are not aware that changes need to be made. I think my exit interview will make these changes pretty clear.

I don’t want anyone to burden me with their concerns. Yes, I’m the one who’s leaving, the one with nothing to lose or gain by telling The Man how I feel. And yes, I share some of your concerns. But I don’t want to fight your battles. I’ve fought many battles in my lifetime and most of the time, I’ve fought them on behalf of others. I just really want my last few days in the office to be drama free.

Drama seems to follow me around like a moth to a flame. And I’m over it. I’d like to have a drama-free work experience at my next job. Is that too much to ask?

When I told my shrink this, Dr. W said, “Lots of people would love to have some drama. They think their lives are dull. They’d appreciate some of the excitement you have.”

I responded, “I’m just tired of fighting for what I think is right all of the time.”

Dr. W asked, “Would you have it any other way?”

I looked away from her and thought about her question. Could I ever stop fighting for what I believe in? Could I ever just walk away from something I feel so passionately about?

I turned back and looked at Dr. W. A subtle smile was on her face. We both knew the answer to her question, but I just needed to hear it from within.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

is it the drugs and therapy or is it just me?

It appears that the best thing I ever did to treat my generalized anxiety disorder was move away from home.

I had no idea how stressful life at home is. And it’s not because there’s non-stop action/drama at home. It’s my sister. She just has to freak out over EVERYTHING.

For example, the Saturday I was in the OC was jam packed with stuff to do. In my head, I had a schedule:

9 a.m. – 10:30-ish a.m. Hair appointment with my colorist (I am now Goth Liz, with dark brown hair and red highlights)
11 a.m. – noon-ish Go to In-N-Out for lunch.
Noon-ish – 3:30-ish Watch the USC/Notre Dame game. Teach Serena the USC fight song.
3:30-ish – 5:30-ish Take a quick nap
5:30-ish to 6:30-ish Get ready for party.
6:30-ish to 10-ish PAAARTY!

In my sister’s head, the schedule went like this:

9 a.m. – 6:30-ish STRESS, STRESS, STRESS

The hair appointment turned into a family affair. My mom, sis, and I all had appointments with the same person (my colorist, Mischa, is very multi-talented). We all took turns babysitting my niece, Serena Rose, who was often content with checking out her cute self in the mirror. I am truly amazed by all of the simple things that can entertain kids for an extended period of time.

Mischa did my hair first. When she was done, my hair elicited the following comment from my mom: “It’s so dark.” Whatevs. I loved it.

After my mom’s hair was done, my sister was in the middle of her cut and color. While under the hair dryer, my sister started her freak out. She looked at her watch and saw that it was 11:15. “Oh my God. It’s so late. We still have to go to the grocery store. I still need to buy the frosting for your cake at Michael’s. We still need to…” In a previous life, I would’ve stressed out along with my sister. Instead, while she rambled about all the stuff we needed to do today, I calmly thought, Looks like I’m going to miss the first few minutes of the USC/Notre Dame game.

While my sister was getting her hair cut (which was going to take a while considering how thick her hair is), my mom, Serena, and I went to the grocery store to get some liquor and other last minute stuff for the party. Serena was content hanging out in the shopping cart, playing with a leaf, and singing her ABCs. By the time I finished putting the groceries in my sister’s car, it was noon and my sister’s hair was finally done.

We all piled into the car and tried to decide where to go for lunch. Obviously, I pushed the In-N-Out idea. My sister, still stressed about the stuff we needed to get done, snapped at me and said, “Why do we always have to do what you want to do?” Realizing her anger had nothing to do with me, I said with evenness, “Because you live here all the time and I visit maybe three times a year.” My sister replied with agitation, “Well, Serena doesn’t like hamburgers.” WHAT? How could my niece not like hamburgers? Especially In-N-Out ones? My sister went on, “She doesn’t like beef.” I thought, Not a problem. That’s what the In-N-Out secret menu is for. (Serena ended up getting a grilled cheese at In-N-Out, which is not the on the menu; it’s essentially a meatless cheeseburger.)

My sister’s stress level was starting to worry me. The last thing I wanted for my birthday was for my sister and me to have some kind of blow-up, knock-out fight. So I told her, “Look, I don’t want to stress on my birthday. I don’t want to fight with you. I just want everyone to be happy. The party doesn’t have to be perfect for it to be fun. The house doesn’t have to be flawlessly clean for people to have a good time. I just want to enjoy what little time I have with my friends and my family. So let’s relax and take a deep breath and stop stressing out.” With some reservation, my sister replied, “Ok.”

My sister ended up having a nervous breakdown in her car later on in the day (my mom and I weren't with her), but I managed to keep my mom calm while we talked to my sister on the phone, trying to help her figure things out. My sister, while out getting the frosting for my cake, was locked inside her car. Her car wouldn’t unlock and she didn't know what to do. My mom suggested she call the dealer where she recently purchased the car. After calling the dealer AND our trusted mechanic, my sister eventually figured out what was wrong. She didn’t put her car in Park after parking the car and turning it off. Ay.

I’m surprised with myself for managing to remain calm in a world of overly-stressed-out situations. I told my mom later that my therapy must be working. But honestly, I think that being this far away from my sister and her needless stressing out has helped me tremendously.

And that makes me sad.

just leave me alone

I've been feeling pretty sensitive lately. I'm not quite sure why. I've got my hormones in check and all (it's a non-placebo week). But I'm still quite emotional. I feel like I'm operating on a short fuse and I may go ballistic on anyone any moment now. I had my first opportunities this morning. Miraculously, I kept my mouth shut.

My morning started as it usually does. Except this morning, like yesterday morning, I found myself unable to get out of bed because I hadn't slept well the night before. Yesterday, I ran out of anxiety meds. I called in a refill but it wasn't going to be ready until today.

So I got ready and headed out to wait for the bus. I was running late and I knew it so I was a little stressed. When I got to the bus stop, I noticed my neighbor was waiting. She's an older lady and I wrote about her a while back (quick synopsis: she shunned me when I told her I was living with a man who is not yet my husband. apparently, she has forgotten as she's introduced herself to me many times now. did i mention that she's old?). We said our usual greetings and then she asked me the one question that is never appropriate to ask a woman unless you are absolutely sure of the answer: "Are you pregnant?"

I know what you're thinking. What is Liz wearing today? Well, I am wearing the teal dress from Banana Republic that I bought during my sick day online shopping spree. It's a little loose fitting. And apparently, I look pregnant in it. I thought I looked summery. I told the nosy neighbor, "No, I'm not pregnant." She replied, "Oh, well, you look pregnant. Must be the dress." I turned to the side to let my jaw drop away from her view. I swear. The audacity!

Seriously, what normal person thinks it's ok to say something like that? Just because my clothes aren't tight and make me look like a sausage doesn't mean I'm pregnant.

Feeling a little sensitive about my weight, I was definitely not prepared for my next opportunity to go nuts on someone. As I approached the escalator to enter Ballston's Metro station, a man in athletic apparel approached me and offered me a free one day pass to the Sport & Health gym at Ballston. I'm sure he approached everyone entering the Metro, but this offered me not comfort. In a huff, I said, "No, thank you. I already belong to a gym." Hence the gym bag I was carrying with me to the Metro. What did he think was in there? A bag full of cookies and bon bons???

The minute I got to work, I was in the mood to bite someone's head off. Instead, I turned to my incredibly mild mannered and sweet cubicle neighbor and asked her for the truth--Do I look pregnant in this dress? S. answered in the most soothing voice possible (she's Southern so her voice is always soothing), "No, of course not. You look gorgeous. And your hair looks amazing today! Is that the cute dress from Banana?" Ahhh...the always-effective hair compliment. I actually took the time to straighten it since today is a low humidity day. If you ever want to get in good with me, compliment the hair.

I thanked S. and calmed down considerably. Fortunately for everyone around me, I have lost the desire to go ballistic. But just so this doesn't happen again, I'll be working twice as hard at the gym today.

And I'll be picking up my prescription.

men, marriage, and a fear of commitment

It’s been a while since the last time I talked about therapy (what? Like two weeks?). Yesterday’s session was particularly thought provoking so I just had to share.

My visits with Dr. W are evolving into a routine of sorts. Every visit starts out with Dr. W asking me about my sleep patterns from the last week. After all, my sleeplessness is what made me seek out therapy in the first place so it’s nice that she keeps asking me about it. However, we all know that my therapy is now about more than just my sleeplessness.

She then asks me how things are going at work. This usually determines the content of my session (and probably why I haven’t been blogging about therapy in a while). If work is the reason why I can’t sleep, we end up talking about that and my future and my professional goals, etc. If work is good and not causing me any stress, then we move on to the usual topic—the boyfriend.

Yesterday, after getting all of the fluff out of the way, Dr. W asked me about Jesse. I told her about my recent pregnancy scare (if you could even call it that) and how I asked Jesse what would happen if I got preggers (for that story, click here). I said to her, “I feel good knowing that Jesse continues to picture me as being a part of his future.” Dr. W replied (in total Debbie Downer mode which is so not like her), “How do you know he’s not just telling you things to keep you around?” I thought about that for a while. The truth is that I have no idea. I am certain that Jesse loves me and I trust and believe in that. As far as whether or not we’re going to get married, I have no idea. I do know that Jesse is a man of his word. I answered Dr. W, “Jesse doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. But I trust he’s not just telling me what I want to hear. How do YOU know that he is or isn’t?” Sensing my defensiveness, Dr. W replied, “I don’t. But I want you to be open to the possibility.” I’m not open. End of story.

I’ve been getting the impression that Dr. W is lumping Jesse in with all of the male patients that she’s been seeing (and has seen in the past) about their fear of commitment. I’ve always felt that Jesse is unlike ‘all the other guys’. I refuse to believe that he could ever get lumped in a category. He’s special. And not just to me. He truly is different.

In the course of an hour, I went from being pretty happy to pretty hopeless about my future with Jesse. And then Dr. W took a shot at redemption. She started telling me about her male patients who have a fear of commitment. Dr. W said, “These men, they come in here telling me about how much they love their girlfriends and their girlfriends are pushing them to propose and get married and they just can’t. They can’t take that extra step. I challenged one of my patients to really look deep inside. I told him, ‘Your girlfriend is completely powerless. She’s already told you that she wants to spend the rest of her life with you and you’re the one who isn’t sure, who thinks that maybe there’s someone else out there who might be better. But it’s not about the grass being greener. It’s about the power and how you have it now. You’re afraid that will change once you get married. You can’t commit because you don’t want to lose or share the power.’ He didn’t see it at first, but then he began to realize that it really was about the power.”

I asked Dr. W, “So you see this a lot, huh?”

Dr. W said, “In my many years of experience with this issue, the loss of power was a common theme. I even saw this in some of the nicest guys. It’s usually harder for them to realize it.”

I wasn’t ready to hear the answer, but I was super curious. I just had to ask. “Of all the guys you have seen with a fear of commitment, how many of them end up getting married?”

I held my breath while Dr. W thought about her answer. I thought my chest was going to explode and then she finally said, “I’d say 90%.” My response: “Wow.”

I left my appointment feeling pretty good about myself and my chances of getting Jesse to be open to the idea of marriage. But the time I got to the Metro, the cynic in me had a thought and it ruined my hopeful mood.

What if Dr. W was just telling me what I wanted to hear?

looks like the drugs are working...

Dear Old Liz,

Hey! How have you been? Long time no see, dude. Whatever happened to you?

Remember when you had dreams? Remember when you had these larger than life plans for the future? Remember when you wanted to save the world from AIDS and how you were going to do that through education? Remember how driven and motivated you were? Whatever happened to that?

Remember how you never wanted to get married? Remember how the possibility of being domesticated by the institution of marriage repulsed you? Remember how the lure of free love was intoxicating?

Oh yeah, you got that boyfriend. Not like it’s his fault or anything. In fact, he probably fell in love with the super-motivated, goal-oriented you. So what changed? Why did you go away?

That’s right, I replaced you. Liz was drawn by the lure of domesticity, the comfort of being loved. Slowly but surely, Liz replaced your goals with mine. You see, I want to get married. I want to have a family. I want to walk the future kids to school and drive them to little league. I want to be dedicated to the man in my life. I want to ensure his happiness. Your goals just didn’t seem to fit any more so I took over.

Well, guess what? Liz isn’t happy. In fact, she’s been going to therapy and stuff, trying to solve her issues. She’s even taking drugs, which she really did want to do but her shrink says they’ll help (not the illegal kind, silly. Please, she doesn’t even smoke!).

I don’t think I make her happy. Liz is just too dedicated to her man now. She’s totally forgotten about herself and what she wants in life. She’s frustrated with her work. She’s convinced that Jesse will never marry her. She misses home a lot. At least her friends still like her. I wonder if they’ve noticed these changes too.

I propose a solution. I think you (Old Liz) need to come back. But me, New Liz, I don’t want to go away. So we need to work together. We need to find a balance where Liz can still be happy and dedicated to her man, but remember that what she wants is important too. Are you up for the challenge of working together? What do you think we should do?

Looking forward to your reply,
New Liz

Dear New Liz,

Tell Liz she needs to get some of her old life back. Tell Liz she needs to go out, go to coalition meetings and network and she needs to be open to the possibility of a new job. She needs to surround herself with people who share her interests and goals. She needs to get off her ass and go to the gym 4 times a week like she used to (not whenever she feels like it). Tell Liz that me and her friends forgive her for spending so much time with her man (he’s pretty hot, so I don’t blame her).

And tell her I’m back.

Laters,
Old Liz

the big relationship intervention of 2007

I came back to work yesterday to the news that a co-worker had gotten engaged over the weekend. This news was relayed to me in the most gentle manner. Until the news was finally revealed, my friends had been on pins and needles so I knew something was up. They knew (and right they were) that this news would upset me. Don’t get me wrong. I am very happy for my co-worker. But this co-worker and I used to bond over coffee (well, green tea for me) about how our boyfriends needed to get their acts together and propose already. I had a feeling she would be proposed to first.

Needless to say, I was disappointed that it wasn’t me with the big news in the office and the huge rock on my finger (honestly, I don’t need a big diamond at all). Instead, I find myself still trying to get Jesse to become more comfortable with (and less intimidated by) the idea of marriage. However, a tiny part of me wishes he would just hurry up and propose already (and unfortunately for me, this tiny part of me is exacerbated by my anxiety).

My co-workers (that I’m friends with) decided to stage an intervention yesterday. We went downstairs to our café where we usually get our coffee and teas. Instead of heading back up as soon as our drinks were ready (like we normally do), they sat down on a table and invited me to sit. “Liz,” S. started, “we need to talk.” I knew what this was about. My heart began to beat faster as I sat down with them. In a soothing tone, J. said, “How are you?” S. continued in a similar tone, “Are you ok with the news?” I felt like I was being taped for that show “Intervention” where the families of crackheads and alcoholics confront the addicts and force them (usually kicking and screaming) to seek help. Apparently, my drug of choice is Jesse.

I was very touched by my friends’ concern. I answered, “I’m ok, I guess. It all just sucks.” With understanding, S. said, “But you know that Jesse loves you so much. You are so happy in your relationship.” “Yeah, I know,” I gave in. J. said, “But it’s not healthy. He needs to miss you. He needs to know what it’s like for you not to be there. You’re too available.” Are they going to ask me to start living by The Rules? I pleaded, “But I like to be there for him. I want to be with him.” S. countered, “Yeah, but you always do everything together. Don’t you ever want to just hang out with your friends without him?” I thought about it for a second. I continued, “I suppose, but after 3 years his friends are my friends and vice versa. Whenever we get invited to something, it’s assumed that the other is invited. We’re a package deal.” J. said, “Sure, but you’re losing yourself in all of this. What about what you want?” S. built on this by saying, “You’re too dependent on Jesse. You need to do more stuff for you and not always give so much of yourself.”

Hmmm…they were valid points.

I had an epiphany. “Do you think that if I get Jesse to miss me, he’ll finally want to marry me?” I asked, with hope in my voice. J answered, “Well why would he want the cow if he could get the milk for free? Maybe if you weren’t there all the time, he’ll realize that he could lose you.” S. said, “If you’re out having fun without him, maybe he’ll realize how much he likes having you around and then he’ll want keep you around forever.”

Despite the After-School-Special feeling of the intervention, it felt pretty good to have such great friends that care about me. Also, I’m sure that S. and J. are pretty sick of my bitching about how I’m never going to get married. But I’ve got to give them credit for wanting to prevent my emotional unraveling. It was very sweet.

I told Dr. W about my friends and their intervention and she nodded her head in agreement the whole time I was telling her the story. She added this, “I do think that subconsciously, a major component of your generalized anxiety comes from your issue with Jesse. I’m concerned that you are too dependent on and devoted to him. I think it would be great for you to develop some independence but not because you want him to propose. You need to do this for yourself. I’ve seen many women hospitalized because they were too dependent on their husbands or boyfriends and the men in their lives left them. The best treatment for your separation anxiety is to become more independent. I encourage you to go out more without Jesse. But please do it for you and your well-being.”

So I need to start thinking about me to get over my separation anxiety? Sounds sketchy to me.

Then again, what do I know? I’m the crazy girl who loses it when her boyfriend’s not around.

BTW, the boy left for Vegas this afternoon for a weekend bachelor’s party. Boooo!

but it gets easier, i promise.

Dear Newbie,

I saw the look on your face when you walked into the office. I watched you as you gingerly opened the door, as your eyes grew wide as you took in your new surroundings. I know that all of those ads for the myriad of medications are annoying, maybe even daunting. I was sitting by the window, basking in the warm sun of a gorgeous day when I noticed you, noticed your nervousness. Our eyes met for a split second. I smiled at you as if to say, “It’s ok, Newbie. Really, it is.” You looked away, quickly, ashamed. I felt for you. I know that the first time is hard.

That’s not to say I’m an old pro at this. I’ve only been in therapy for a couple of months now, but I know that it probably took you a lot to even get you into that office in the first place, let alone your first appointment. You probably think you don’t belong here. You’re probably here because your friends, your family, your coworkers suggested it. Or maybe you’re here because your doctor referred you. It doesn’t matter how you got here. What matters is that you ARE here. And trust me, getting here is the hardest part.

You'll find that the first appointment is the worst part. It's uncomfortable. It's intimidating. You might even find it difficult to trust a complete stranger with all the personal stuff in your life that might have lead you here. But it gets easier, I promise. Dr. W is a great listener. She has had many years of experience and her expertise might surprise you. She's trustworthy and easy to talk to. And you'll find that, with every visit, you'll become more and more comfortable with her. Just let her do her job. She's here to help you.

When I walked out of Dr. W's office, you were still there in the waiting room. I felt as light as air, as if a weight had been lifted by Dr. W. It's such a great feeling. I wish that you feel that too, very soon. I smiled at you as I shut the door. You looked away again, as if you hadn't noticed. As I walked out to face the world again, I turned away from the door and wished you a good night. You sheepishly looked down at your feet and said, "You too."

What you don't realize is that we have a lot in common. I thought I was normal. I thought I was ok. I found Dr. W because my doctor told me to. I was nervous at my first visit and for many visits after that. I came here for my own reasons, but in the end, I just want to get better. And I know that you do too.

And you will, some day. And one day you'll realize that every person you meet in that waiting room wants the same thing. We all want to get better. We all want to lift that weight--the sadness, the anxiety, the voices in your head. One day, we will lift that weight off all by ourselves. One day, we'll know how to cope. One day, the calm will replace the stress.

But until that day, I'll be seeing you in the waiting room. Maybe one day you'll smile back, completely aware that you are not alone.


Sincerely,

the girl in the room with the anxiety disorder

you STILL want to be with me?

I went to see Dr. W yesterday and not surprisingly the topic of the hour was Jesse. I had told Dr. W last week about going to my friend Jackie’s wedding this past weekend and how I feared that it would stir up some very selfish feelings of insecurity and uncertainty of the future of my relationship. When she asked me about the wedding, I very happily told her that I was successful in pushing those issues out of my mind for once and truly enjoying the special occasion that was the wedding.

I told Dr. W about the two girls who sat at our table at the reception. Both of them, on separate occasions while the other wasn’t at the table, asked me and Jesse if we were married. One of them, the more flighty and intrusive one, actually asked us a series of questions—Are you married? Do you have kids? Are you engaged? Do you live together? Jesse and I, certainly surprised by her interest (and the interrogation aspect of it all), answered each one with some amusement.

The other one, while Jesse was away from the table, asked me if we were married. I told her that we weren’t. Immediately, I felt sad. I assumed she was going to ask me whether we were engaged. It is that assumption that upset me. However, she didn’t ask me that. She followed my answer with this comment: “Well, you two seem married.” Huh? “What do you mean by that?” I asked, unintentionally defensive. She responded, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I was just watching you two and I noticed that you seem very comfortable with each other.” I confirmed her assumption by telling her, “Yes, we are very comfortable with each other. At times, it does feel like we’ve known each other forever.”

When I told Dr. W this story, she was very curious about this girl and what she noticed. “How is it that you and Jesse convey a comfort with each other? What is it about you two that she noticed? How do you act with Jesse?” I was confused and didn’t really know how to answer these questions. Unsure of what she was getting at, I told her, “I don’t know. I really can’t observe myself with him. But this isn’t the first time someone has made a comment like that.” She replied, “I wonder why that is—this vibe that you two give off that other people pick up on.”

Even as I type this, I’m not sure what she was trying to get me to open up about. So I focused on the ‘comfort’ factor. “Well, Jesse and I are pretty comfortable with each other. Even from the beginning, nothing in our relationship felt forced or uncomfortable. Everything felt natural, as if this is just how things are supposed to be.” Dr. W nodded as she scribbled some notes. I continued with this story,

Very early in our relationship, Jesse and I were talking on the phone during one of our many marathon phone chats. I’ve always been a pretty straightforward person. And because I was still somewhat cynical about love at the time, I wanted to make sure that Jesse knew what he was getting himself into. So I told him about all of my faults and idiosyncrasies. I told him that I’m whiny, not sometimes but most of the time. I told him that I’m needy. I told him that I’m stubborn. I told him that I just have to be right all of the time. I told him about all the imperfections I could think of. And then I said to him, “Despite all of this, you still want to be with me. Why?” I remember his reaction like it was yesterday. Jesse laughed to himself and said, “All of that stuff is really not that bad. Believe me. I KNOW crazy. And you? Well you just make sense to me. I understand why you are the way you are and it’s ok.” Jesse’s said a lot of nice things to me during our years together and that one is honestly one of my favorites.

There hasn’t been much progress on the marriage issue, I’m afraid to report. I’m not quite sure what progress looks like (besides a proposal, I guess, and I’m not expecting that at all). I really wish I could get time to speed up to the point where Jesse will want to marry me (I sound strangely confident that's going to happen some day, don't I?).

Until then, I’ll just stress about it.
*sigh*

“i hate DC and everything it represents”

My mom and I used to talk every day. Shortly after Jesse and I started getting serious, my mom and I had a falling out. She said a lot of things that hurt me even though she now regrets saying them (and claimed she said them only out of anger). Since then, we don’t talk as frequently and I keep the details of my life to a minimum. It makes me sad that we’re not as close as we used to be but if she knew EVERYTHING about my life now, she would be mad or disappointed (most likely both). So I keep the details out mostly for my benefit but also to protect her.

But there are some things that I probably shouldn’t keep from her, regardless of how she might react. I’ve decided that one of those things is therapy (I’ll keep my sexual experiences to myself, thank you). I feel kinda weird that all of you blog peeps know something so personal about my life and my mom doesn’t. There is one big reason why I haven’t told my mom. I know for a fact that she would blame herself for my going to therapy (or worse, blame my not-very-good-Catholic-girl habits). And honestly, the guilt trip is not something I need right now.

However, for some strange reason I felt the need to come clean and I did so the other night. My mom had called and we started talking about the Virginia Tech tragedy, more specifically the gunman’s apparent mental illness. My mom and I were on the same page on this issue (this could’ve been prevented if someone had noticed and forced the gunman to seek treatment early on) and we so rarely see eye-to-eye on things lately. And of course, I had to ruin the bonding moment by mentioning my mental illness (anxiety) and telling her about my treatment (we were on the subject of mental illness, after all). I really didn’t see a better segue way.

Naturally, she had a lot of questions. What is anxiety? How do you know you suffer from it? Is this why you can’t sleep at night? Are you depressed too? Do you have to take medication? And the big question—Why do you have anxiety? I answered the last question the best I could. I said, “Well, my therapist thinks I have a fear of loss and abandonment, something that I’ve been feeling for a long time but it’s not something I always think about so the fear manifests itself in strange ways.” She replied, “Is this my fault? I have always been there for you. Do you think that I would leave you?” I sighed and responded, “No, mom, this isn’t your fault. I don’t really know why I have this fear. I guess that’s what therapy is for.”

My mom isn’t exactly a psychology denier (like Tom Cruise) but she often assumes that God could be the answer to all of my problems. She supposed, “Don’t you think this is something God can help you with? Maybe if you went to church like you’re supposed to…” Ah, the guilt. My mom is so predictable. Not surprisingly, a comment like this would’ve upset me. Surprisingly, I took it in stride. I told her, “Yes, maybe He could help. But my therapist has already helped a lot so I’m going to stick with her.”

My mom continued with the guilt trip. “You know, if you had never moved away, this would’ve never had happened. You would be safe and secure and you would never be alone because you could be here with me.” Immune to her guilt trip, I answered, “Well, we don’t know that. And you know why I moved here. It’s not like I did it for fun. I did it because I needed to advance my career.” My mom said, voice quivering, “I hate that place. DC. I hate DC and everything it represents. That city took you away from me and I’ll probably never get you back.” Trying desperately to diffuse this situation, I told her, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mom. But if I hadn’t moved here, I wouldn’t have become the person that I am and I like me. Everything happens for a reason.” She composed herself and immediately regretted what she had said. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

I accepted her apology, but I’m sad she feels that way. However, I completely understand where she’s coming from.

And I’m certainly not convinced that I’ll stay here forever. Time will tell, I suppose.

therapy is the new black

My longest relationship with a man in DC has not been with Jesse, my current boo. It has been with Gary, my hairstylist since I moved here. And if you think I’m faithful to Jesse, than you better believe that I would never, ever cheat on Gary. I have no reason to. He’s awesome in every way.

I transferred to a downtown Crap store when I first moved here to keep the moola coming in. During my first week, I met Gary, a sales associate. As I was introducing myself, he sized me up and down and said, “I have a vision for your hair.” No hi or welcome. I was a bit weirded out. He continued, “Well, I’m just looking at you now and I can see all the possibilities for your hair.” It was true that my shoulder-length bob was growing out, but this guy didn’t even know my name and he wanted to cut my hair. Was it that obvious that my layers were growing out? Not wanting to appear offended, I asked him if he worked in a salon and what he charged, information he was more than happy to divulge. And then I forgot about it.

On a random day off, I was strolling through Georgetown and decided that my bob desperately needed a trim. So I walked into a salon that welcomed walk-ins and asked for a trim. The girl at the front desk directed me to an empty chair and a guy suddenly appeared behind me. I explained to him what it was that I wanted (the bob still had shape, I just needed a trim and the layers needed some refreshing) and he looked confused. He turned to the girl at the front desk and asked her to translate. Apparently he was French and didn’t know much English yet (at least he didn’t understand the words, “I just need a trim”). I was nervous that he didn’t understand a trim request. A feeling of dread suddenly came over me.

Before I knew it, I got a bowl haircut. The bob was gone. The layers were non-existent as he had cut my hair the same length as the longest layer. And I looked as if I belonged in grade school. I was nearly in tears when I walked out of the salon. When I got back to the place I was staying at, I looked in the mirror and tried to style it in different ways to minimize the bowl shape of my head. I consoled myself by saying, “It’ll grow back.”

I went to work the next day not quite sure what to do with my hair. I just left it alone and prayed that it would grow back quickly. Some time during my shift, Gary showed up for his. He took one look at me and said with much concern, “Oh no! What did they do to you?” I nearly broke down right there. I told him about the evil French stylist and how he didn’t understand the word “trim.” I told him about how sad I felt, but I was hopeful that my hair would grow back eventually. He listened to every word I said and told me, “Come by my salon tomorrow and I will fix it.” Needless to say, I took him up on that offer.

The next day, I showed up at Gary’s salon not knowing what to expect. He sat me down and said, “Just so you know, in order to fix this, I have to go shorter. I promise you’ll like it.” At this point, anything was better than the hair bowl on my head. Without reservation, I replied, “Ok, just do what you gotta do.” In the end, my hair was far more stylish and far less bowl-shaped. But it was short. So short that a small part of the back of my head was shaved. I had some misgivings. However, the cut was still better than what I had.

I headed straight to work after my appointment and was bombarded with compliments. Even customers wanted to know who had done my hair. I referred everyone to Gary. Gary got so many customer referrals from me that he ended up setting me up with my own price for hair cuts. And obviously, I haven’t seen anyone else for a hair cut since.

As my hair has changed over the years, so have I and Gary has been there with me every step of the way. Even after we stopped working together at the Crap, I would visit him at the salon or hang out with him or chat on the phone. I suppose that the nature of his job requires that he be a good listener, but he also gives great advice and I’m always anxious to tell him my stories at every visit.

Last weekend, I saw Gary for a trim right before the wedding I went to this past weekend. He asked me, “So what’s new in your life?” And I stalled for a bit, not knowing whether or not I should tell him about the shrink. I was afraid he might judge me even though he never has in the past. I decided to come clean. “Well,” I said slowly, “I’ve started seeing a shrink.” Gary’s response was: “Oh really! Damn, I want one. Everyone has one these days. Therapy is the new black!” We had a good laugh and I was relieved.

I’m not sure why I feared that Gary would judge me. Mental illness carries such a stigma and I know that it will be a long time before seeking treatment for mental illness will be as socially accepted as seeking treatment for any physiological disease. It really shouldn’t matter to me what other people think. And if these people are truly my friends, they would be unconditionally supportive.

I guess I would be disappointed to find out who amongst my friends truly isn’t a friend at all.

what a shrink should never do during therapy

I was running late. The last thing I wanted to do was to show up late for my second appointment with Dr. W. After all, I’m paying for 45 minutes of Dr. W’s time. Something tells me that I wouldn’t get a discount if I only get 30 minutes with my shrink because I showed up late.

I get to the Metro and wait. Come on, it’s 4:45 pm and I’m paying for rush hour service. I shouldn’t have to wait 6 minutes for the next train. My heart starts to race faster and I can’t stop my hands from shaking (they were shaking only slightly, but still involuntarily). I just really don’t want to be late. I finally get on a train.

I rush to her office. I wait for one of the two elevators to come down to the first floor so I could take one of them all the way to the top. Both of the elevator doors opened at the same time to reveal a brother in one and a sister in another and apparently they were racing each other in the elevators. I choose to ride with the little boy. He apologizes. I accept but I'm still annoyed. My heart was still racing.

I open the door to Dr. W’s office and I sit down. I pull out my cell phone to see what time it is. It’s 5:15. I made it! I’m right on time. Woo hoo. Now if only my heart could stop racing. I get a cup from the water cooler and pour myself some cold, refreshing water. This should calm me down. I look down into the cup before I take a sip and realize that the water in the cup is shaking. Or rather, my hand is still shaking therefore the cup is too.

Dr. W comes out and welcomes me in to her office. She asks me how I was doing. I told her about what happened. How agitated I feel. The rapid heartbeat that just won’t stop. The tension I feel in my hands. The stress headache I just gave myself. “All I want to do is calm down and relax, but I can’t,” I tell her, a tone of frustration in my voice. “Have you been practicing the relaxation techniques?” she asks. “Yes,“ I tell her, “but I can’t seem to get my brain to just stop so I can relax. The techniques aren’t working.” Dr. W calmly says, “We’ll find something that works. I know we will.”

And I believe her.

She asks me about Jesse and how he deals with stress. I tell her, “Jesse is my exact opposite in almost every way. He is always calm and cool as a cucumber. In fact, I didn’t really think there was something wrong with me until I started comparing our reactions. He lets things go easily, whereas I can dwell on something forever.” “How often do you feel anxious?” Dr. W asks. “Often. And I’ve been noticing it more since I started seeing you,” I say.

We start to wrap things up. I get up and she starts to walk me to the front door. I stop and tell her, “You know, I’ve been living this way for so long that I just thought it was normal to react the way I do.” I look at Dr. W and see the shocked expression on her face. “No,” she replies, very slowly. “This is NOT normal. In fact, it’s just horrible to live life that way.”

As I walk out of her office, I think to myself, Wow. She just looked at me like I was crazy. My shrink made me feel like I am crazy. This should be a violation of some shrink code. Like the Hippocratic Oath (do no harm) but for shrinks—Do not make your patients feel like they are crazy.

And like a true patient suffering from anxiety, I dwell on this all night.

the blog post Tom Cruise doesn’t want you to read

Last week I told you about my failed trip to see a shrink. Please rest assured that I have finally met her and I had my first visit yesterday. I say ‘first’ because there will be more (perhaps many more).

I walked into her office yesterday afternoon almost expecting Dr. W not to be there. I took a deep breath and turned the door knob. Damn. It’s turning. I thought, Well, I might as well go through with this now that I’m here. I sat by a window and filled out my paperwork. When I was done, I just sat there watching the snow fall. It was very, very soothing.

An older man walked out of Dr. W’s office. I turned to look at him and gave him a smile. He avoided looking at me. That struck me as odd. I was just trying to be friendly.

Finally, Dr. W emerged and led me to her office. She was as grandmotherly as I expected her to be. However, she was a much better dresser than I thought. She was wearing these cute little grey wool pinstriped cropped pants, black patent leather flats, with a grey chunky knit v-neck sweater and a fabulous scarf that pulled it all together. My shrink was a fashionista. I really wouldn’t have it any other way.

I sat down in an uncomfortable chair. She sat across from me, grabbed a file folder and some spare sheets of paper, and started to ask me questions. They started out very basic (how long have you lived here, where are you from, what do you do) and progressed to very personal (are you in a relationship, describe your boyfriend, describe the relationship you have with your mother). I surprised myself with my very honest responses. I suppose therapy is not the place to be lying. However, I often gave out (what I considered to be) too much information. After all, I barely knew this woman. I understood that she is a medical professional who intends to make me better. I put all my faith in this woman (and that scares me).

I told her about my panic attacks, my lack of sleep, my inability to stop my mind from racing uncontrollably. Dr. W determined from what I told her that the attacks seem to occur when I feel that I am missing something or have lost something. “Usually”, Dr. W explained, “these are rooted in a deeper fear of something, something you probably don’t even realize.” Hmmm…I’m not afraid of anything. She continued, “It seems to me, considering your small family support system, the death of your father at a very early age, and the fact that many milestones in your life occurred while you were alone, that you may have a fear of being alone.” Possibly. Dr. W said, “People who have this fear don’t like it when their husbands or boyfriends go away on trips, leaving them alone.” Ummm…when did I tell her about my separation anxiety? That hadn’t come up yet. As if she knew everything about me, Dr. W continued, “In fact when left alone, you lose all desire to do anything, like eat, sleep, going out.” Holy crap. Was she secretly taping my life? How did she know these things?

I left her office knowing several things that I didn’t know before seeing Dr. W.

• I do in fact suffer from anxiety and not depression (take that, Dr. E).
• My anxiety stems from my fear of being alone.
• Shrinks can be stylish.
• Therapy isn’t as bad as I thought.
  

As I walked out of her office, I saw a girl about my age in the waiting room. I smiled at her and she quickly turned away. She looked embarrassed. I felt bad for her.

On my way to the Metro, I wondered why it is that mental illness carries such stigma that people who seek treatment are embarrassed for doing so. The way I see it, mental disorders are illnesses just like diabetes and hypertension. People seek treatment for those (like a healthy diet and prescription drugs).

How is depression or anxiety any different?

And why should you feel ashamed for trying to make yourself better?

yes, that was me being humiliated in public

So yesterday I told you about my thwarted visit to see Dr. W, the shrink. But that wasn’t even the highlight of my day.

Leaving Dr. W’s office building, I felt very vulnerable. I popped my iPod ear buds in and turned it on. Lily Allen came on and suddenly, I started to forget (by the way, I’m going to see Lily Allen next month when she comes back to the 930 club and I’m so excited). I walked past two boys (approx. 12-13 years old) on my way to the Metro station escalator and one of them said (in a sing-song-y tone), “Hell-o.” I thought nothing of it.

After reloading my SmarTrip card, I went down to the platform to wait for the next train. The two boys I passed earlier had beaten me to the platform and met up with some friends. As I got closer to the group, the Cocky Boy who had said hi to me earlier said, “Excuse me, miss.” I didn’t turn around. Why? Because I didn’t think he was talking to me. But then he said loudly (and with a cockiness way beyond his years), “Hey baby, I just wanna talk to you, get to know you better.” What? Are you serious? Some little kid was hitting on me!

(Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been hit on by a kid. Probably the most memorable one was the kid who asked me for my phone number outside of Union Station while I was on my way to an Adams Morgan ‘excursion.’ I laughed it off as I walked away but, boy, was he persistent!)

I turned around to look at the kid, whose friends were egging him on. And I meant to say this in my head but somehow I said it outloud: “I’m twice your age.” His friends were smiling as Cocky Boy said, “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number!” His friends all broke out into laughter. Were they laughing at me getting hit on by their friend? Possibly. Were they laughing at Cocky Boy getting rejected? Most likely. Either way, this all happened during evening rush in front of a large number of people eager to go home. Needless to say, I was eager to go home to.

I’m glad I kept walking and didn’t stop to make Cocky Boy happy. I walked to the opposite end of the platform that Cocky Boy and his friends were congregated. And I sat and waited for a train, listening to my iPod. And as humiliated as I felt, I was grateful that Cocky Boy helped me get my mind off of things.

perhaps this is why I need therapy

For the past two years I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I’ve tried all those drugs you see those commercials about—Ambien, Lunesta, etc. But none of those could get me to sleep through the night.

As a result of the sleeplessness, I am now prone to migraines, which I’ve sought treatment for. My doctor thinks that I’m depressed. I’m not quite sure how that’s possible considering how great my life is right now (I’m with the love of my life and I have a great job AND I just got a raise). And I know what depression feels like because I’ve suffered from it before. I can’t really describe it very well, but if I had to try I would say that depression feels like the overwhelming desire to do nothing. It’s a deep sadness that leaves you practically immobile. It’s a feeling that you know is not good for you but you can’t shake it. And I just don’t feel like that any more.

But to prove Dr. E wrong (what does she know? She’s just one of DC’s top docs according to Washingtonian Magazine), I finally decided to follow her advice and see a shrink.

The search for a shrink started months ago with the peeps that Dr. E recommended. Of that list, half of them didn’t call me back. The other half wasn’t taking new patients. So I gave up. After all, the temporary fix Dr. E gave me to help me sleep was working. But now that my prescription is about to run out (with no refills in sight, oh my), I decided to take action again. I did a search for shrinks and found Dr. W.

When I called Dr. W, I got her voicemail. A woman with the most soothing, almost grandmotherly voice said, “I am not in my DC office today but leave a message and I will return your call as soon as I can.” Sure it was a machine, but that was the least intimidating voice I had heard all day. Immediately I thought she’s the one.

After our initial conversation (when she revealed that she was indeed taking on new patients), Dr. W and I played phone tag for a few days, trying to schedule our first appointment. We scheduled it for Valentine’s Day. V-Day, if you recall, was the day after that snow/ice/sleet storm and I was stranded at home because the bus lines weren’t running. We cancelled the appointment. And then I didn’t hear from her. For several days.

And in typical Crazy OC Girl fashion, I started to freak out. What if Dr. W doesn’t want me as a patient anymore? Damn, I haven’t even met her yet and she’s already rejecting me? I began to really stress out about it. Big time. I called her again and left a message. When she finally returned my call a few days later, I felt incredibly relieved (that and I stopped obsessing over it). Dr. W really does want to be my shrink. Our appointment was rescheduled for yesterday.

There was only one tiny problem. When I showed up to her office, I noticed something strange. Her door was locked. Hmmm…perhaps she’s inside with a patient that she fears is a flight risk. What do I know? So I waited for someone to come out. For an hour. I tried the door again and it was still locked. I knocked on the door loudly. Still nothing. I decided to leave.

I called Dr. W and left a message. “Dr. W, I was under the impression that we had an appointment today and I’m currently at your office but it doesn’t appear that anyone is here. I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding. Please let me know if you’d like to reschedule. I can be reached at (insert work and cell numbers here). Thank you.” I felt sizeable lump forming in my throat. I don’t know why, but I felt horribly rejected. Again. As a future patient, was I not of value to her? I had felt nervous all day because of this appointment, and now I would have to go through it all over again some other day? I didn’t want to come back. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I don’t need to prove Dr. E wrong.

When I got into work the next day, I had a message waiting for me from Dr. W. It was an apology. And I’ve agreed to do this all over again next week.

Probably with more anxiety and less throat lump.