My take-no-BS friend had insisted that I see a counselor.  I asked a bunch of people whom they might recommend and took absolutely none of their advice, choosing instead a person who purported to have deep Christian faith.  She was very condescending and it was just not good all around. 


I discovered that I didn’t need to pay for that kind of s**t.  She told me to be assertive, so I fired her.


I feel great now sans counseling.  Thanks to yet another bad counseling experience, I know I am better off without it.


So, I was doing some research, right?  Benchmarking, if you will, and I was talking- unbelievably- meeting with, almost on a peer level- to the head of the psychiatry department at another, similar facility to ours.  And he was talking about support groups, and how theirs were such successes, getting fabulous turnout- because they are not “support groups” per se, but fun: a cooking class for diabetics, por exemplo, and a salsa-dancing class for weight loss.  He said that the only group that had no takers was a support group for women with depression.  And I thought, I’m a woman with depression.  What I said was,

     “That sounds boring!”

He looked at me funny for a second, and then just went on like nothing had happened.

That was pretty cool.

This post at Cheeky Pink Girl– a wonderfully thoughtful (and smart, and interesting) blog- is about me.

Charlotte- the blog’s author- is the only person that I could have even mentioned these things to. (Jack- bless his heart-has circuit overload when I try to talk about it. He’s wired a bit differently than most, too: don’t judge). Char and I had the most wonderful, loving phone discussion. When I say love, I mean tough love: the kind that she knew I really needed.

Usually I am an optimistic person, but sometimes the dark clouds take over- for instance, severe lasting physical pain brings them on, but also the winter SAD that for some reason was the worst this past winter than ever. I can get into a hole that seems to have no escape route other than exercising my free will to…well…but Char helped me find the some real escape routes: Prayer- of course; even the simplest of prayers; ways to find the right fit of a counselor; and possibly antidepressants just for the winter, and just getting the stupid light box already!!! (I had forgotten to tell her about my horrible EAP experience and our ridiculous stepfamily counseling sessions that hurt more than helped.   So my fear of finding the wrong counselor is not irrational). And then she opened up the discussion to her thoughtful and kind blog readers. People whom I have never met, and likely never will- except online!

What a blessing. What a cloud of believers on the Internet. Think about that- people’s souls- never having met IRL-, touching each other, praying for each other, in the ether, on the way to eternity. It is a beautiful thought.


Their hum gets in my head, rattles my skull.  I live by the freeway.  Every rush hour, helicopters have to hover over my house.  Oh, gee, traffic’s backed up?  It’s five o’ freaking clock in the afternoon.  If traffic wasn’t backed up, that would be news.


People touching me.

Why do people love to touch me??  Don’t touch my hair.  Don’t put your hand on my shoulder, and don’t pat my back.  Don’t hug me.  I just don’t like it.  Do I just look cuddly?  Why?  Pretend I am a cactus.  Just do not touch.


Lost pet ads.

Few things make me feel sadder.



Mercifully, I rarely barf.  The last time I barfed was in 2005, after I had surgery.  I dry heaved on the street this last winter when Jack’s uncle bought me too many rum and cokes at a dive bar.  But I did not barf.



I have some mild-to-moderate social disabilities.  One of these is forgetting people’s faces, or simply not recognizing them at all.  It can be very embarrassing.  It is a good thing that I can be cute when I want, and if I turn on the charm I can bluff my way through certain encounters.  This is one area where being a girl is definitely advantageous.  One time I had to look at headshots in a police book after I man masturbated at me.  I had to tell the cop that they all looked alike, which they did. 


Misspellings and grammatical errors.

Use a dictionary.  Crack open Elements of Style or the Little, Brown Handbook.  There, how difficult was that? 

The worst is when I make an error.  It embarrasses me thoroughly.


After-school time.

The worst time of day: when the schools let out and mean-spirited hooligans children pour out of them, waiting to make fun of me on the street.  Three o’clock rolls around and suddenly I am eight years old again and getting bullied. 


Owning too much crap.

I’ll admit it: stuff owns me.  Left to my own devices, I’d have a narrow path in my house through which to navigate.  I’m in a purge cycle right now.  It’s hard.  It seems like every time I actually get rid of something, shortly thereafter I really, really do need it this time.  Really!

Coming soon: Things I Love.  Yes, there are some things I actually do enjoy in this world.

So last week I mentioned the trichotillomania (TTM) study for which I realized I didn’t qualify.  Two weeks had gone by with nary a call.  Then two hours after I posted about it, ready to stop “looking forward to the call,” who calls?  The study lead said that based on severity, I don’t meet the criteria for being in the study, but I am welcome to some free psychotherapy at the university if I want: ten sessions over twelve weeks (I wouldn’t get the stipend, which was only $200 anyway).  It’s on campus in a beautiful old building.  Normally I make any excuse whatsoever to go on campus.  I just love being there. 

I told him I had to think ab0ut it and would let him know Monday, which is today.  I don’t think I am going to do it.  I already opened that vein.

I signed up for a psychiatric study for which I met all the criteria in the little ad.  It was in one of the free papers, so probably a lot of people auditioned for it.  I apparently didn’t make the cut, since after a brutally honest and grueling three-hour evaluation two weeks ago, the guy still hasn’t called me back.  I suppose a lot of crazy people read those free rags.  Maybe it’s all relative.

Somehow after admitting to another human being on this planet all of my longstanding phobias and delusions, stuff that Jack doesn’t even know about, I feel lighter and more free.  The world didn’t end.  I didn’t even cry.  Plus, it was prorated, so I should be getting a few dollars in the mail too.