The events of tomorrow very much necessitate the events of today.
I’m fucking old.
Tag Archives: therapy
A Fun Little Experiment
My therapist suggested I try a “fun little experiment” where I cut out all alcohol on the week days and log how it affects my mood and exhaustion levels.
So now I find myself staring at the stocked bar in my kitchen on a Friday morning, wondering if holidays still count as week days. Or if ANY Fridays still count as weekdays. I mean it’s FRIDAY. That’s basically the weekend. Even if it’s morning.
And that’s when I realize that this is no “fun little experiment.”
It’s an intervention.
Treating Anxiety is an Exact Science
Me: “I’ve been thinking about lowering my meds again soon. I’m way less anxious these days.”
Therapist: “Good.”
Me: “Good that I want to lower them? Or good that I feel less anxious?”
Therapist: “Good that you feel less anxious.”
Me: “So you don’t agree I should lower them?”
Therapist: “I didn’t say that.”
Me: “But you didn’t agree.”
Therapist: “I didn’t know you were seeking my agreement.”
Me: “Well…I don’t like it when you have NO reaction to an idea I’ve presented.”
Therapist: “Why is that?”
Me: “BECAUSE IT MAKES ME FEEL ANXIOUS!”
(long pause)
Me: “Yeah let’s keep the meds where they are.”
The Plan
Therapist: “You’ve been saying for a while now that you might want a career change. It seems you haven’t felt very fulfilled at your current job.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “And you said you were going to take some time, explore some options, talk to a few people, do some research, and come up with a plan.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “So, you did that?”
Me: “Yes I did!”
Therapist: “And you have a plan?”
Me: “Yes, in fact I do!
Therapist: “I mean besides ‘get pregnant and quit.'”
Me: “Oh. Then no.”
You Are What You Read
Eric says I read too many heavy, serious books about mental illness, and that maybe this contributes to my anxiety and hypochondria. So this time I chose one where, yes, the main character DOES have bipolar disorder– BUT he lives a super full, productive life, has a job he loves, is married to the love of his life, has a baby on the way, and takes really good care of himself. While it’s tough for him and his family to grapple with his bipolar disorder, and he often gets knocked down, he always finds his way back, and it’s actually a really inspiring take on living with mental illness.
His wife dies, though.
Of cancer.
BECAUSE WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE OF CANCER.
Self Esteem
Whenever someone gives me a compliment, I automatically assume they are drunk.
I know, this doesn’t say much about my self esteem. So I am working on it.
I’m trying to get to a place where, when people say something nice to me, I truly believe they are being genuine. That I am a good person, and people can recognize and point out my positive qualities without being under the influence of a ton of alcohol.
And the fact that they’re always throwing up right after– that’s just a coincidence.
My Students Will Know I Have a Mental Illness
The other day some teachers in my school were discussing how the 5th graders have been very into googling their teachers to see what kind of dirt they can dig up.
I’m sure this trend will catch on with the 4th graders soon enough, so just to prepare myself for what my students might find, I googled my name. The very first thing to pop up (besides my LinkedIn page) was an essay my father wrote about why he supports mental health organization Active Minds.
It goes into detail about my battle with Depression and Anxiety, focusing specifically on a time when I was deeply, deeply depressed, to the point where I had to quit my job and move home. It talks about how I couldn’t function. How my brain essentially lost the ability to comprehend the simplest of information. How I was terrified all the time, and couldn’t stop crying. How I was completely dependent on those around me. How I took, and continue to take, medication for mental illness. How I saw, and continue to see, a psychiatrist.
And you know what? Good.
Sure, I could worry about the general stigma and misunderstanding. I could worry about judgement from the students’ parents. I could worry that the children, families, or administration would look at or treat me differently.
But I don’t. At all. The old me would have.
Here’s how I see it now:
Your teacher was really sick and she got better, kids. And she works extremely hard to stay better, even though some days can be pretty tough. But she keeps going. And she has wonderful, strong relationships with caring, amazing people who are there to support her through the darkness and celebrate with her in the light. She stumbles, and sometimes it takes weeks or months to get back up. But she does. And she’s stronger and wiser for it.
I think that’s a pretty great lesson for a 10 year old.
Don’t you?
Now let’s just hope to god they never find my blog. 
Therapy
Therapist: “How are the sensory issues this week?”
Me: “I did what you told me and got new bras– and they definitely fit WAY better! It made me realize how old and stretched out my other ones were. But I still can’t WAIT to take them off.”
Therapist: “Ok, well then you probably do have a bit of a natural sensitivity to it, regardless of the fit.”
Me: “So I got new bras for nothing?”
Therapist: “Well I wouldn’t say it was for nothing.”
Me: “But the sensory problem isn’t fixed.”
Therapist: “Ok, but…you should still have new bras.”
Me: “Right.”
Therapist: “That fit you.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Therapist: “And that aren’t 10 years old.”
Me: “Ok.”
Therapist: “Just as a general rule, you should replace your undergarments every once in a while.”
OK LADY. BACK OFF.
I Have Evolved
When I was in 6th grade, I got off the bus one day at my bus stop, and out of nowhere, a high school girl drove up next to me, got out of her car, and repeatedly punched me in the face. Literally for no reason.
I never found out who the girl was, but I spent years hoping and wishing that she got what was coming to her– namely, a miserable existence.
But now that I’m older, wiser, and have undergone years of therapy, I no longer hope she’s miserable.
Because misery can, for the most part, be treated and alleviated.
So I hope she’s ugly.
Like, painful-to-look-at ugly.
No amount of meds or therapy will help her out of THAT.
Fucking bitch.
Therapy
Me: “Can depression and anxiety cause sensory issues? I just feel like I’m SO sensitive to the feel of certain clothing on my body.”
Therapist: “Sensory issues can definitely be comorbid with anxiety. But give me an example.”
Me: “Like, for instance– bras. I can’t STAND wearing a bra. I feel like I’m always tugging at it and feeling suffocated and honestly, sometimes I just take it off in the middle of the day because I can’t stand it anymore. And I feel like it’s not normal to be THIS sensitive to it, and it must be related to my mental health issues, right? Or a side effect of the Prozac? Or maybe it’s a whole other disorder I didn’t even know I had?”
Therapist: “When was the last time you bought a bra?”
Me: “Ummm…” <thinking hard. A good 30 seconds pass>
Therapist: “Yeah. Your bras don’t fit.”
Me: “You think?”
Therapist: “Yes. Go buy new bras.”
Me: “Oh. Ok.”
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