I went to see my shrink tonight. I gave him the run down of what has happened, and why the wheels are about ready to fall off the wagon. After I was done, he sat very quiet for a good few moments. And then he repeated back to me:
Let me get this straight. Just as a recap. We've done the car accident, recovered, we've done the divorce, yet it lingers on in never ending bullsh!t, you gave away your dog, you get a little stressed out about life, confess your concerns to your mother, who turns around and tells you, in essence, she doesn't have time for YOU to be stressed out about YOUR life because she needs you to run HER business, for an abysmal salary, the lawyer you hired, whom you trusted, wipes out your savings account, in essence reducing your rainy day fund to a mere misty day in the fog account, on top of that, through a forgetful day, gets you into tax trouble, your brother, who has historically exploited you all his life calls you up, not once, but twice, and verbally accosts you over the phone over your father's heart attack, because you, god forbid, did not pick up the phone and call him about an event he already knew about from your other sisters... and in the midst of this, you are worried about your kids, keeping a roof over their heads, and finding a job that pays half-way decent in an area that, not anyone anyone, in their wildest dreams, would describe as a hot bed of economic activity. Your boyfriend is a state away, your bestfriend lives two hours away, you are in essence ALONE, with no one HEALTHY to talk to....
... am I getting this straight?
Yes, I said.
Uh huh, he says. Long, long beats.
And then he says, "you know, if I didn't know you and your history, and you just walked in and told me this story, I would stake my career on the fact that you were lying to me. All I can say to you now is, "Hell, girl, if I were you, I'd be drinking, too."
So we explored, for some time, my drinking and my habits, and he quizzed me quite in depth about them, and my state of mind.
In the end, he came to this conclusion. He told me he did not think I was drinking because I was an alcoholic. I was not exhibiting signs. He was convinced I was drinking as a means of self-medicating, though while understandable, would lead to undesirable consequences, and he was glad I had sought the help of an MD for my anxiety attacks.
He was sorry to tell me that I was not neurotic or sick, but quite healthy, as a matter of fact, for "if you had walked in here and told me the story you just did, and didn't have an urge to drink, or weren't ready to bust at the seams, I'd be very seriously worried about you. The fact that you understand in the midst of this crisis that you needed to seek help, that you were beginning to 'lose' it tells me you are an inordinately stressed, but HEALTHY individual who needs some help. We all need help, from time to time."
His biggest, most pressing concern for me is my isolation. Though he understands my doctors urging to go to AA and be in a 'support' group... he'd rather see me in a support group of more healthy individuals... to give me something to model. Not that he has anything against AA... he just doesn't think I've gone down that far. Which surprised the fck out of me.
He continued to stress to me how 'normal' I am... just that I was a normal individual with inordinate stress levels.
My two biggest stumbling blocks: I am so determined to PROVE that I can do it 'on my own,' that I can't DO anything, and two, I will not accept genuine offers of help when they come.
NOOOOOO. Not me.
We talked through my plans. He told me I need to pull back on my book a bit... and instead of writing a novel in world record time, which he has no doubt I can do in my manic state, to find balance, and bring it back to half to one page a day. To develop a realisitc plan of employment... meaning... rather than shooting for the moon... I pull back a bit and shoot for... oh... the next block over... so as not to overwhelm myself.
Network. Plan. Take things one step at a time rather than the whole ocean at a time.
He is working with my M.D., and he has high hopes for me. He said to me, "Corri, I swear, promise me sometime in your life, you will hole yourself up in a B&B and write the story of your life, sell it to a major motion picture outfit, and make a million. 'Cuz no one, no one will ever believe that the very truth of your life is anything but fiction. No one."
