The Eternal Sunshine of the Scroogy Mind

So…  I’ve gone and decided to seek therapy for my friggin mental health issues.  Finally.

I called today and asked to make an appointment and the lady took a message.  Is that weird?  Is that how therapists work? I feel like I dialed the wrong number and I’m being punked.  Anyway, just one of the things I’m worrying about as I await the beginning of treatment.

Here’s some more:

– My husband brought home his used tupperware and utensils from lunch and there were three butter knives in the bag that aren’t ours.  My logical mind knows they either belong to the office kitchen or to a co-worker.  My crazy mind thinks they belong to his svelte, smart, funny, adventurous new girlfriend who meets him at lunchtime for leftovers and a little afternoon delight.  I know in my head & heart that he is faithful, it’s just that my ego’s all effed up.  See, Peeps, my Dad was an open womanizer and oh yeah, also the only other guys with whom I’ve had long-term relationships were big ol’ cheater cheater punkin eaters.  Poor Hubby.  He really didn’t know what he was getting himself into.  Good thing I’m smart enough not to actually vent these delusions in his presence.

– I have some lower back pain and something wrong with my left hip (bursitis or whatever??).  But every time I have a twitch of pain, I’m sure it’s The Cancer.    Then I swallowed too much air or some junk when I gulped down my gallon of water a day and therefore have indigestion and then I’m sure it’s The Cardiac Arrest.  (Cause I’m gonna die soon, remember?) Then I start to have a panic attack…  It’s good times.

– I sit here at my desk to use my netbook b/c if I went in the living room, I’d see the giant mess the kids made with their teeny tiny Barbie and Lalaloopsy toys and the menagerie of stuffed creatures that certainly must multiply overnight.  How did we accumulate so many?  And if I really sat amongst all that, and the dust on the TV stand and the dusty picture frames and clock and the goldfish crumbs on my carpet I’d go absolutely bonkers and decide to clean it all up myself and then I’d hurt my back/hips even more (like I did last Monday) and then, well, see the above craziness, and also… I’d get all sad and depressed and self-loathing b/c I have these issues b/c I’m so overweight and I did this to myself and what kind of person does that and…  It goes on and on, one thought steamrolling into another until I just wanna go to sleep or eat a bag of Doritoes with sour cream and onion dip or drink a whole box of cheap Sangria.  Seriously, you guys, the Franzia is calling my name as I type.

– I gave up my job and some glimmer of ambition to go for my MBA to stay at home with my kiddies and now I’m so out of the loop that I don’t even know what a dongle is and I wish that damn Samsung commercial would just shut the hell up.  Surely a dongle isn’t a real thing.  It’s just something Madison Avenue invented to make stay at home Mommies feel like they have missed out on some sort of technological revolution and they’ll never fit back into the workplace.  I mean, it sounds just ridiculous.  Dongle.

-And while I’m ranting about career ambitions…  WTH was I thinking, pronouncing myself a “writer.”  Stupid.  Gah.  I can’t even stick to a goddamn writing schedule.  And it’s something I love.  Why can’t I do something I love to do?

Oh, that’s right.  I’m fucking depressed.

Why won’t that therapist call me back?  Seriously?


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