Delta40
04-13-2011, 06:38 PM
You're going to have a nerve wracking morning but it will all work out in the end.
According to the psychiatrist, I presented myself as an overweight, kempt woman. Kempt? Well that was the story of my life, serving others, being at their beck and call. These days I just want solitude. A friend pointed out that it probably meant the opposite of unkempt. I winced at the idea that I am kempt. I mean in the last four months I haven't had it in me to take a shower but I sorta thought an appointment with the shrink might warrant some special effort on my part so I somehow managed it. I didn't want him to get the wrong impression about me. I leant against the tiled wall for support as the water invaded my senses till finally, I was lost amidst the steam. Then there was the problem of finding something to wear. For a while I flopped uselessly on my bed. Glistening from the shower, I cried, 'I can't do this, God don't make me do this!' The room was oppressive and silence sucked my thinking processes dry. Bra, knickers, cotton pants, t-shirt, sandals. Another cry, cold water flannel, coffee. Why did I need to see the guy anyway? All he was going to do was write up something more detailed than 'Your Stars for Today' Yeah. As my hand trembled, I phoned the taxi and waited. Had I got everything? Oh ****! I'd left my travel pack of kleenex on the table. I was sure I did. Where was the key to let me in? **** I'd left that on the table too. Now I would never be able to get back in my house. The cat vomited at my feet, and I wished I was that cat. I rummaged through my handbag, certain everything I needed was on my list. Any moment now the taxi would arrive and I'd look like an idiot. Sweat poured down my face, streaking the light face powder and mascara. I was a sweaty, fat, Alice Cooper thing locked out of her own house.
The keys? In the side pocket. The tissues? In my makeup bag. I kicked the cat for freaking me out. No, it wasn't the cats fault, it was me. Panicking just because of panic. Nothing else. I dabbed my face with a tissue and thought about the taxi. Who would be in it? Should I sit in the front or the back? What the hell was my PIN so I could pay the guy?. Another rummage through my bag and I was relieved to find my credit card.
The Horrorscope the psych produced was my life in a nutshell. How could he have known three and half pages about me, when we only spoke for an hour? Imagine if I told him that I wasn't coping! He wrote I suffered from PTSD but as it was in ten point font, not bolded or underlined, I figured that meant I had it at the lowest level. I mean it didn't jump out and slap me in the face and anyone skimming the horrorscope could easily miss that little detail. He raved on and on about Cluster B & C personalities but it was all a mystery to me. Dysthimic Dithorder too. You say it and see if you don't sound like Cindy Brady!
That is what I held in my hand a week after trying to make it to the appointment. The cab came and I ducked inside. Honk, honk, honk! I locked the door and hid behind it till the cabbie took off. Then I vomited like the cat had. I knew it would make me feel better. With a coffee and 3 smokes, I rang the doc and told him I couldn't make it. He interviewed me over the phone and before I told him anything I said, 'You must know what I'm wearing first.' He said he would make a note of it then asked me my age, how much I weighed. I toyed with my bra strap as I revealed these personal aspects about me. He told me not to worry. 'I'll send you the report Lindy. I hope it helps you' Help me? So many questions and I had been hand wound through a wringer more times than my Father's best pants. I stripped off, found my tatty pyjamas and sought comfort in a packet of biscuits. Chocolate ones. I did my shopping online and settled down, knowing that I had identified my boundaries, my limitations and that could only be a good sign. I decided to tell the doctor this the next time I called.
According to the psychiatrist, I presented myself as an overweight, kempt woman. Kempt? Well that was the story of my life, serving others, being at their beck and call. These days I just want solitude. A friend pointed out that it probably meant the opposite of unkempt. I winced at the idea that I am kempt. I mean in the last four months I haven't had it in me to take a shower but I sorta thought an appointment with the shrink might warrant some special effort on my part so I somehow managed it. I didn't want him to get the wrong impression about me. I leant against the tiled wall for support as the water invaded my senses till finally, I was lost amidst the steam. Then there was the problem of finding something to wear. For a while I flopped uselessly on my bed. Glistening from the shower, I cried, 'I can't do this, God don't make me do this!' The room was oppressive and silence sucked my thinking processes dry. Bra, knickers, cotton pants, t-shirt, sandals. Another cry, cold water flannel, coffee. Why did I need to see the guy anyway? All he was going to do was write up something more detailed than 'Your Stars for Today' Yeah. As my hand trembled, I phoned the taxi and waited. Had I got everything? Oh ****! I'd left my travel pack of kleenex on the table. I was sure I did. Where was the key to let me in? **** I'd left that on the table too. Now I would never be able to get back in my house. The cat vomited at my feet, and I wished I was that cat. I rummaged through my handbag, certain everything I needed was on my list. Any moment now the taxi would arrive and I'd look like an idiot. Sweat poured down my face, streaking the light face powder and mascara. I was a sweaty, fat, Alice Cooper thing locked out of her own house.
The keys? In the side pocket. The tissues? In my makeup bag. I kicked the cat for freaking me out. No, it wasn't the cats fault, it was me. Panicking just because of panic. Nothing else. I dabbed my face with a tissue and thought about the taxi. Who would be in it? Should I sit in the front or the back? What the hell was my PIN so I could pay the guy?. Another rummage through my bag and I was relieved to find my credit card.
The Horrorscope the psych produced was my life in a nutshell. How could he have known three and half pages about me, when we only spoke for an hour? Imagine if I told him that I wasn't coping! He wrote I suffered from PTSD but as it was in ten point font, not bolded or underlined, I figured that meant I had it at the lowest level. I mean it didn't jump out and slap me in the face and anyone skimming the horrorscope could easily miss that little detail. He raved on and on about Cluster B & C personalities but it was all a mystery to me. Dysthimic Dithorder too. You say it and see if you don't sound like Cindy Brady!
That is what I held in my hand a week after trying to make it to the appointment. The cab came and I ducked inside. Honk, honk, honk! I locked the door and hid behind it till the cabbie took off. Then I vomited like the cat had. I knew it would make me feel better. With a coffee and 3 smokes, I rang the doc and told him I couldn't make it. He interviewed me over the phone and before I told him anything I said, 'You must know what I'm wearing first.' He said he would make a note of it then asked me my age, how much I weighed. I toyed with my bra strap as I revealed these personal aspects about me. He told me not to worry. 'I'll send you the report Lindy. I hope it helps you' Help me? So many questions and I had been hand wound through a wringer more times than my Father's best pants. I stripped off, found my tatty pyjamas and sought comfort in a packet of biscuits. Chocolate ones. I did my shopping online and settled down, knowing that I had identified my boundaries, my limitations and that could only be a good sign. I decided to tell the doctor this the next time I called.