Stand back; here it comes.
Just home from my first counseling appointment. Ripped off my jacket and shoes. My only thoughts on the way back have been to (1) fire up as soon as I can and (2) get to writing.
Did well with panic this morning; didn’t put my coat on til 8:40. Out the door, concentrating only on getting to the train station. Found my connection and got a thrill when my chip card worked. The train was lovely – bright, clean, and wide. I took a seat for the 6 minutes needed to get me to my stop.
Getting off the train, I felt completely confident. I had 20 minutes to take what google told me was a 10 minute walk. Now to find some sort of sign to point me towards the hospital…
That’s when the world slammed me, and slammed me hard. No signs, no mention of the fucking hospital anywhere. I guessed the direction out of the station and of course took the wrong one. Getting dumped out into a residential neighborhood with NO information and seeing a taxi stand that was completely empty (taking away my safety net of hopping in a cab and saying ‘take me to the hospital’) made my entire system surge with unwanted adrenaline. Stop. Turn around. Ask person one for directions. “Oh, go out the other side of the station.” Of course. Back through, out the other end. No signs. No directions. No fucking anything. It was SO blank I’m officially voting it the WORST directions in Rotterdam to date. Ask person two where the hospital is. “Hospital? That green building (points across a 6 lane highway).” Ooookay. Another 10 minutes trying to find a way across said 6 lane highway.
Despite my best intentions – AND leaving 20 minutes early – I was 4 minutes late for my appointment. Breathing hard from walking so fast, I clutched my coat and backpack to me like they were some sort life preservers.
I wonder now why I rushed. Heike took all of 35 minutes with me. I guess I didn’t merit a full hour of discussion. What I heard: a lot of mumbo-jumbo about getting up and doing things each day. What I said: I swim, I walk, I do something every damned day so that at 6 p.m. I can say ‘Well, at least I did that’. Other things said to me: I’ll have to stop smoking, at least for a while. What I said: Well, you’d better damned well give me something for my fucking anxiety then, because I won’t fucking make it. Other crap I didn’t want to hear: a lot of focusing on my depression with no mention of the flip side. What I said: I ‘fessed up to a 2.5 year manic period when put on Lexapro for depression. I also noted many other days of relative sleeplessness. The skinny: I have an appointment on 29 Jan to see the psychiatrist, and another appointment for 1 February to see Heike. I am also in possession of an hourly checklist on which I must make note of each and every joint I smoke. Tra. la. Two checks today already. My levels will be monitored via urine/blood tests.
Came home and blew up. Just spewed my anger over not finding the place, the shortness of the appointment, the focusing on my depression and smoking rather than anything positive. I don’t feel positive about this AT ALL right now.
To top it off, with all the not knowing where the fuck I was going, I ended up walking up about 8 flights of stairs. Now my knee hurts.
Check, check, and check away. I fully intended while on the way back home to stave off my continual need to smoke til later in the afternoon. Right now I say fuck it. My little volcanic eruption when I walked in the door said it all; I got wound up again. Yes, I got through it and that deserves applause. But it took its toll on me. So be it. If that’s the pattern I present to them next time, then they’ll know. See? See how fucking wound up I get? I’m not fucking kidding about this. When I say I need some goddamn fucking medication to get me past something I’m not fucking fooling around. You think I don’t push myself to the goddamn limit every fucking day with this fucking rheumatoid arthritis? Fucking think again. Every. goddamn. day. I know what it is to push.
Goddamn fuckity-fuck. That knee fucking hurts. I know that pain; it’s not good. Definitely chair time.
Permission granted. Thank you, brother, for just coming in and saying yes, for fuck’s sake woman, smoke. You’re riled up.
The words that just fell out of my mouth are important enough to put down in writing. My first goal is honesty. Honesty about the dreams, the sleeplessness, the rape, the depression, the hate, the rage, the delusions of grandeur. Quitting smoking is entirely secondary to me. I need to tell that to both the psychiatrist and Heike next time.
Funny how my brain works. Don’t know that I could have put those particular words together before this. But there it is, my truth. My goal. You doctors can have all the other goals you want. First I have to tackle this.
There now. I’m clear with myself. Found what needed to be said. And there. Now my computer calendar is set to give me a reminder every day to my appointment that says ‘My first goal is honesty’. Now I’ll remember. I wrote it first as ‘Honesty is your first goal’ but..you know. Take it into the first person. Make it personal.
Because that’s what honesty always is: personal.