Crazy is as crazy does.

There are a lot of blogs out there. Blogs about politics (a whole lot of those!), about school, about kicking various chemical dependencies, and others that are just ways for family members to stay in touch. Except for one posting in my blog about politics (which apparently was either completely ineffectual or scared some people liberal), this blog is only about one thing:

My life. And I am amazed and relieved that people are following along.

Or to quote a line from "Ally McBeal"-
Georgia: "Ally, what makes your problems so much bigger than everyone else's?"
Ally: "They're mine."

And there are many aspects to my life. Sure, there's the sex (and a lot of it!). There's the fact that I sold my soul to Company X and am worried about losing my job. There is another facet of me, an American, living and working in Europe. And while we are at it, let's not stop flying the woman banner, eh?

But there is another aspect of me that no one other than early and devoted readers of my blog (love to ya', Johnr) and those in the medical profession really know about. And that is the fact that I have issues. Well...don't we all. But I have been seeking help for some of my issues.

Say what you like about socialized health care (and trust me, I have a lot to say about it), but they have taken pretty good care of me. I do some have issues. Not the kind that makes you hesitantly minimize the blog window (...back away sloooooowly from the crazy lady's blog). Actually my problem is anger. Although, to the naked and sane eye I may appear very laid back, I am actually often wound tighter than the perm of an 80-year-old Florida retiree. In fact, the only people that know how I really am are my shrink, my two closest friends, and, oh, well I guess everyone who reads this blog now. My temper is fast, furious, and like the flow of a woman's menstrual cycle, it's completely unpredictable.

And the biggest problem with me is that work is my everything. The heart and soul of me. My driving force. And yes, I am trying to change.

The problem is, what do you put in the void it leaves behind?

Anyway, I was supposed to get an "official" diagnosis today. But the assessor called in sick, and simply left a note for me at the reception. She has had a diagnosis for me since the end of July, but didn't want to stress me, so didn't tell me on the phone as she rather wanted to tell me in person. Clearly, she is not used to dealing with Type-A personalities like myself, that want answers and want them NOW GODDAMMIT!

The assessor gave me lots of tests, some of which cracked me up (and not in a going-batty kind of way). Some had questions such as:

- "Did you like to set fire to your blankets as a child?" (Ummm...no...but thanks for asking.)
- "Do you often hear voices that tell you what to do?" (Even if I did-which I don't-that's got "real crazy" written all over it. That box would get checked "no" even if it was true!)
- "Can you predict the future?" (You are screwed if you are a professional fortune-teller taking this test, apparently.)
- "Did you like to torture small animals as a child?" (well, seeing as this is the number one behavioural pattern in serial killers, guess this would put me in the Manson family circle if I said yes. Are you checking to see if I am ill, or criminal? It was a no, at any rate).

My appointment has been re-scheduled to next week. This has pissed me off and I find it thoroughly unprofessional, but I am loathe to raise a fuss about it since they might really worry about my mental stability.

Assessor 1: (looking over my test): I don't know. She's a difficult one.
Assessor 2: Yeah, she scored high on the verbal, but Christ her math scores were abyssmal.
Assessor 1: Um, you're looking at her SAT scores, not her psych test.
Assessor 2: Oh sorry. My bad. Here we have them.
Assessor 1: Hmm...so she likes to masturbate, huh?
Assessor 2: Yeah. She's an insomniac, too.
Assessor 1: And worries about getting fat. A lot.
Assessor 2: Hold on. What's this? She counts the letters in signs she sees while stuck in traffic?
Assessor 1: WHAT!?
Assessor 2: And she even counts the punctuation!
Assessor 1: What? Punctuation? That sick bitch!

I am hoping for a visit from Roland the Mental Health Fairy tonight. Hell, there is a Tooth Fairy, an Easter Bunny, and a fucking leprechaun each March, why can't there be a Mental Health Fairy? I have him pictured as Dave from Wendy's dressed in a light pink tutu and carrying a sparkly wand labeled "Freud". He pirouettes into the room in the middle of the night, Cuban Stogie firmly clasped between his teeth, to help whisk away my Kafka dreams and restore the chemical balance to my synapses.

I am puting my ego under my pillow tonight, next to my Pocket Rocket and set of 8 new AA batteries, and see if Roland the Mental Health Fairy can fix me up.

God knows over the next week I am going to need his help.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 04:29 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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