Ashy Talons

From my previous blog post you can tell that things are not exactly right with me both physically and mentally! Hell, I have never been quite right, but breast cancer and all its glorious aliments and treatments has really pushed me to the edge of bat-shit-craziness. I recognize my bat-shit-craziness and I accept it! Part of the acceptance was realizing that I should probably go to talk to an unbiased ear. Someone that could listen, nod, and mutter the occasion um-hum and maybe provide some coping skills to get me over this hump in my life.

I set out on a search to find that person to help me navigate this roller coaster. I wanted someone that has specific dealings with cancer patients, but that search has been fruitless. Yeah, several people list "cancer" on their Psychology Today page, but it was either they were announcing they once had cancer, currently have cancer or just throwing random words out like a person with Tourette's. PTSD... GRIEF... DIVORCE... DEPRESSION... CANCER... BALLS...

I found a seemingly nice enough lady not too far from me, and called to schedule an appointment. It is clear that I was not mature enough for all that entailed having said phone conversation with a mental health professional. The conversation was roughly 30 minutes if not more and consisted of asking very intrusive questions. It was like an interviewed to see if there were enough fucked up mental issues swimming around in my head to warrant allowing me to sit among her or just be in her presence.

"Have you ever seen a therapist before?" "Yes."

"How long ago?" "I don't know. I think I was 18 at the time."

"What did you go for?" "Sexual abuse."

"Who sexually abused you?" "Great grandfather."

"Do you know what triggered your sadness and prompted you looking for a mental health professional?" Now I am spinning from the previous questions and thinking, well, do you think it could be the fucking questions you just got through asking me. Who the fuck wants to dredge up old fucking wounds?? And how the fuck am I supposed to know, hence me contacting a mental health professional to begin with, lady?? Instead of verbalizing every inch of the banter running through my head, I said "I don't know."

"You cannot think of one thing that may have triggered this event?" Mind you, I am still reeling because this is still the very first time I am speaking to this person and we are becoming very intimate. I don't want to fuck you. I just want to schedule a fucking appointment! But I politely answer, "not that I can think of."

"When were you told you were cancer free?" "Um, I don't think they ever tell someone they are cancer free. But my tumor markers are now normal, which I guess is as good as being cancer free."

"When did you learn that your tumor markers were normal?" "Last week."

"Ok, then we will use that as the trigger. Is that okay?" "Um, I guess."

Meanwhile, the conversation I am having with myself in my head blocks out anything she says after that. What the hell is the importance of a trigger? Obviously, I don't know enough about this process to be a participant in said process. I understand cause and effect, but this is a whole new level for me. I mean, I hear trigger and think gun.

Finally, we get to the point in the conversation where we are scheduling the appointment, which I do and to which she proceeds to tell me that I need to fill out the paperwork before arriving or arrive early to complete it in the office. I think, easy enough, and hang up.

To my chagrin the paperwork was some next level shit of incomprehensibility that left the phone conversation feeling like a breast exam as opposed to an all-out vaginal swabbing. Thirty pages of questions after questions, then some statements notifying you that all your records can be subpoenaed and she can be compelled to testify against you. Every inch of the documents made me squirm and start down this rabbit hole of "what if" questions with scenarios.

What if I say the wrong thing and she thinks I am truly crazy and has me committed? Would my family be able to get me out of the mental hospital? Would I be trapped there forever now a ward of the state? What check boxes do they have to tick in order for them to commit someone? What if she records all the sessions and plays them back for her "colleagues"? And then her colleagues just sit around psycho-analyzing the shit out of me? Will my ears ring because they are talking about me or my nose itch because they are thinking about me?What if I run into someone I know? Do I walk pass like I don't know them or do I pretend I am going to a different location?

Again, I am clearly not fucking mature enough to handle this situation, but I digress. An example of question on the form is, "Have you ever thought about hurting yourself or others? Suicide, homicide, all the -cides..." Not until you just put the damn thought into my head and back down the 'what if' rabbit hole I go!

Fast forward to the office visit. There was so much going on that my head was seriously drowning. First, I arrived 25 minutes early, and was then chastised about being "really" early. Mind you, she told me to arrive AT LEAST 15 MINUTES early. She said, "I was going to go grab some lunch before your appointment." I looked at the clock and thought, bitch, you were going to make me sit here and wait on you to shovel food into your face? But I was flabbergasted and did not say anything.

Second, she went over my paperwork with a fine-tooth comb, which quite literally took 20 minutes. Again, I thought how can you go grab lunch and be back here in time for my appointment?

Third, she has a therapy dog! I love dogs! I love dogs more than humans! But what a fucking distraction this dog was for me!!! She said, "the dog may recognize some feelings from you and may approach you." To which my mental what-if rabbit hole takes over and all I could think is, "why is this dog not in my lap? Why can I not love on this dog like Lenny up until the point he kills the rabbit? I can tend the dog. Why is she still talking? All I want to do is pet the fucking dog! Stop talking! No, I don't want to answer your fucking questions or talk deeply about my cancer roller coaster. Damn it, I just want to know why this dog is not sitting next to me! Ah, look at it... So cute! Crap, I must focus. Focus, damn it, or you are going to get committed and never see your family again."

Fourth, and probably the most disturbing aspect of that entire transaction of events was the therapist herself. She was a fucking mess. I know I should think "we are all human and no one is perfect" but FUCK! I am going to her for guidance and if anything, she should put on a fucking show of manufactured and polished maturity to get me through a session. She better make me believe that she has her shit so together that all I want to do is strive to be her, but alas my expectations were too high.

As I sit down on the couch and her on the over-sized chair, I see she had a food stain on her dress. So, of course, down the rabbit hole I go... Is that stain from breakfast? Because she already told me in so many words, I interrupted her lunch plans. What did she fucking have? Gravy? Was she eating brown gravy for breakfast? Where the hell can you get brown gravy for breakfast? Maybe it was a chocolate shake? Who the hell has a chocolate shake for breakfast? Fat ass people have chocolate shakes for breakfast, that's who! But she is not a fat ass. I don't know what the fuck that is, but I wish she would wipe it off!

In an attempt to deflect my eyes from the stain on the front of her dress I veer down at the dog which is about 2 feet away from her feet. This is when I made the decision that I will never be back in this office again. Her fucking feet! They were a fucking train wreck. I could not divert my eyes from her opened toe heels. Her fucking toes were so ashy that if she rubbed them to-fucking-gether she could literally make snow. And the talons on this lady, oh my gosh, were unbelievable. No wonder she wore open toe heels, because I can imagine her fucking toenails would chisel holes into all her shoes. Nope, I will never be back. I will not accept guidance from a woman that leaves powdery Freddy Krueger gashes in her wake. Deal breaker, bitch! I hope you use my money to go to a fucking podiatrist and turn those clodhoppers you call toenails into actual toenails not toenails that could be lethal weapons, and while you are there figure out what you can do for the ash. Those ashy talons you call toes need some serious attention more than my mentally fucked up ass.

For fear of what I may encounter on my next therapist visit, I think I will just live with my bat-shit-craziness a little while longer.

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