Shrinking heads

Sitting in the waiting room at the shrink is a lot like I imagine it is at an STD clinic. You all know why you’re there, but don’t want to acknowledge it.

Sadly, I think it’s probably more socially acceptable to have gonorrhea than depression. At least you’d have had some fun getting the clap.

It’s been designed to be deliberately soothing and non-confrontational. It has the complete opposite effect.

The thing is, you can’t help sizing up the others waiting their turn. On a scale of 1 to bat shit, where do you fall in comparison to the tidy little man in a suit sitting next to you? How many more screws do you have loose than the woman in the corner. Just one or a toolbox full?

And what if you recognise someone?

A hint: You do not acknowledge that recognition with anything more than a discrete head nod and don’t bring it up at the water cooler in the office. Ever. What happens at the shrink stays at the shrink.

Just knowing that someone is about to clinically evaluate my brand of crazy is enough to have my blood pressure going through the roof. Bats of anxiety fleeing the belfry. Most of them ending up stuck in my hair.

My head doctor is very nice. She’s very put together. Very… dare I say it… sane.

The more she looks at me the more I flight the urge to flee. I’ve actually being doing rather well, but you couldn’t tell that from my demeanour.

Every random tic suddenly comes to the surface and I end up twirling my wedding ring, playing with my necklace and tapping my foot at the same time. And then, I realise I’m doing it and try to sit on my hands instead.

I’m practically vibrating like a out of pitch tuning fork.

None of which is convincing her of my ability to be a productive adult.

Sometimes, I think that I rather have head shrunk by some headhunters in Borneo.

Of course, if I ever run into her in the real world, like at the mall, I can guarantee you that it’ll be a day when I haven’t brushed my hair, am wearing yoga pants and can’t decide between chamomile or aloe loo paper.

C’est la vie.

Naivete and the Bubble Skirt

This whole global village interconnectedness thing is getting me down.

Sometimes I just need a comfy padded sound proof room in which to scream loudly where no-one can hear me and go running off to give someone the gossip.

The internet used to be like that.

I could post something online and it would disappear into the ether.

It was very cathartic and substantially cheaper than paying a disinterested shrink to listen to me whine for an hour.

These days there really is no such thing as anonymity.

It can be quite oppressive when you want to let loose and just vent.

I got taken for a ride. Hence the diatribe.

I ended up looking like a fool – a stupid, gullible, naive fool – and at my age naive doesn’t suit me well – like bubble skirts and plaid.

I wanted to pick the phone and tell someone.

I wanted someone to tell me things would be alright even if they weren’t.

I wanted a shoulder to cry on.

I wanted someone to see the funny side and laugh at the whole stupid mess.

I’d even settle for a painkiller to mute the pounding cacophony in my skull.

What I didn’t want to hear was:

“I told you so”

“You should know better” and

“This surprises you. Why?”

So, I didn’t bother telling anyone after all.

I feel like a helium balloon the day after or the dress lying crumpled and discarded on the floor.

I want a pity party with chocolate fudge ice-cream and Dirty Dancing and Tequila.

Lots and lots of Tequila.

Barring that a pair of super-duper high-heeled leather boots.

So I can kick some well deserving ass.