Humpty Dumpty had a big fall
I am sitting in my car, rehearsing the conversations I will have before I have them. Practicing my responses, repeating them like a mantra. Practicing standing up for myself (ha!), not taking no for an answer, defending myself to judgmental figments of my imagination. I alternate between turning the radio on an off, finding it both soothing and terribly distracting. I need to focus. I need to practice. Most of my drive is done in second rate auto pilot. I try to use my coffee cup as a shift stick.
I am 48 hours post meltdown.
The doctor's office is a special kind of purgatory. I spend most of my time studiously avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room, flipping through the apps on my phone, trying to find one that will cut through the static that is my attention. I bought myself a fidget spinner to stop myself from shredding my lips, but I'm always too embarrassed to pull it out. My lips are swollen and bleeding when they call me in.
All of my careful practicing flies out the window when the doctor sits down. My heart is pounding, but what else is new? I carefully improvise my lines and am surprised to hear my emotions taking over. The doctor speaks to me in quiet, calming tones. I am almost six feet tall, but I feel much smaller. I do not have to advocate for myself. He writes a prescription and doctor's note less than a minute in to our conversation. I waited an hour and a half for a five minute conversation.
The woman at adult mental health hands me the referral form with a smile that is equal parts compassion and pity. I feel fragile. I have sat in this waiting room before, with people I love, doing the same thing, but now I am alone and I feel A L O N E. I want to cry. I do, once I'm back in my car. I have been treated with more kindness than my brain tells me I deserve. The drive home is auto pilot again. I should feel accomplished but feel empty instead.
I have an anxiety disorder.
I am playing pick-up-sticks with the shattered pieces of myself. I feel sad. I feel afraid. I have done everything right, and gain no sense of relief from it.
There is a worry demon who sits on my chest and sucks the breath out of me. He will not always be in control, but right now it is all I can do to survive him.
I am 48 hours post meltdown.
The doctor's office is a special kind of purgatory. I spend most of my time studiously avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room, flipping through the apps on my phone, trying to find one that will cut through the static that is my attention. I bought myself a fidget spinner to stop myself from shredding my lips, but I'm always too embarrassed to pull it out. My lips are swollen and bleeding when they call me in.
All of my careful practicing flies out the window when the doctor sits down. My heart is pounding, but what else is new? I carefully improvise my lines and am surprised to hear my emotions taking over. The doctor speaks to me in quiet, calming tones. I am almost six feet tall, but I feel much smaller. I do not have to advocate for myself. He writes a prescription and doctor's note less than a minute in to our conversation. I waited an hour and a half for a five minute conversation.
The woman at adult mental health hands me the referral form with a smile that is equal parts compassion and pity. I feel fragile. I have sat in this waiting room before, with people I love, doing the same thing, but now I am alone and I feel A L O N E. I want to cry. I do, once I'm back in my car. I have been treated with more kindness than my brain tells me I deserve. The drive home is auto pilot again. I should feel accomplished but feel empty instead.
I have an anxiety disorder.
I am playing pick-up-sticks with the shattered pieces of myself. I feel sad. I feel afraid. I have done everything right, and gain no sense of relief from it.
There is a worry demon who sits on my chest and sucks the breath out of me. He will not always be in control, but right now it is all I can do to survive him.
Comments
Post a Comment