The Over-Educated Nympho

I finally sucked up my pride (which is quite easy now because so little remains, and what does exist is small and crusty and not at all admirable) and called to set up an appointment with my old psychiatrist today. So I’m sulking. Yes, I KNOW I take two different anti-depressants a day and then Xanax on the bad days and it’s been so bad lately that I keep the whole fucking bottle in my purse, and yes I know that I have done bad things to myself that I’m too apathetic to be ashamed of, that I’m in such a deep state of denial about being mentally sound (hey, if the sense of humor’s still there, I can’t be that bad off) that I have refused to admit that maybe I could use a little help.

I HATE asking for help. I’m a total guy when it comes to that. I hate asking for directions (”I can find it my goddamnfuckingmothersonofabitch self, thank you”), I hate crying, I hate letting people see me on the verge of tears, I hate not knowing things that I feel I should know, I hate having to take anti-depressants even though it’s pretty fucking clear that I’m a lifer, I hate all this shit. I have pride to keep in tact. Clearly though that pride is one sneeze away from disappearing into the atmosphere where city pollution molecules will promptly kick its ass like the sad little Special Bus kid it is.

I have an appointment for Friday afternoon. I already feel better. Dr. Xanax is really cool, so he’s fun to tallk to. He seems like the type of guy who was a stoner back in the day and then suddenly decided to stop because he was too cool. He’s got that aloof thing going on, and he always sits back in his chair with his chin in his hand like you imagine psychiatrists do, except he rolls his eyes and curses a lot, which of course I appreciate being of the Simpsons and Southpark generation. I think he specializes in geriatrics, so I feel smug that he saves his immature smartass remarks for me. I used to see Dr Xanax occasionally while in college to get meds, although I started turning into a big fat drama queen this last year so he was the source of my beloved Xanax. I got sick and hungover from drinking for the first time (ohmygod, I’m like soooo in the lame-drinker group) the first weekend of spring semester because I was so bummed out.

This was meant to be just a six-sentence post. I don’t think I’ve had any of those. My boyfriend says I turn everything into a story and so it will take me five minutes of two stories to answer Yes when he asks if I want to eat at Schlotzskys. I tell him my comical narrative sense of humor is part of my fucking charm. Then he says no, my tits are part of my fucking charm and I talk too much which is fine except that half the time I’m driving an on the verge of rear-ending someone because I’m so busy excitedly telling a story for the third time about how I swear that mechanic is a front for a drug cartel and gesticulating all over the place (yes, gesturing is a vital part of any story, I firmly and stubbornly believe that it helps people to see the visuals of the story that I can see in my head), and I swear that had nothing to do with the time I actually did rear-end someone on the feeder road and before I even finished cursing he was saying I TOLD YOU YOU TALK TOO MUCH AND DON’T PAY ATTENTION WHEN YOU’RE DRIVING but I was too busy telling him about the time Dad was driving me to school and he got in the middle of a four-car fender bender and I was worried I would be late to school which of course was far more important than the dent in the car because it was my turn to present my diorama on whales and it was so much better than Mary Ann’s, that bitch.