Nonsequitur Life

Three weeks in a nutshell:

… Joel got a new alternator and a new battery.

… Bob’s car got two new tires to replace two bald tires.

… The washing machine tried to escape the fucking laundry room. I’d thrown a blanket in to wash and went back upstairs to sort the rest of the laundry. Sometime during the cycle, something downstairs sounded like the whole fucking world was caving in. I went down to find the washing machine (with the dryer stacked on top of it) had walked itself a good six inches from its original position and was now leaking water on my floor. THAT’S JUST GREAT. The dryer is now sitting in the kitchen and the washing machine is barely recognizable as a washing machine. One of the drum shocks came out and in its journey across the floor the detergent dispenser practically cracked in half causing the leak. We’re waiting on parts to come in so Bob’s dad can finish fixing it. Oy.

… I scheduled my annual physical ONLINE sparing myself the panic attack of having to pick up a phone. EVERY clinic should provide this service.

… The anxiety has been a royal bitch as of late. As in actual [mostly] unprovoked, full-blown panic attacks. Today (or yesterday, I suppose) I drove myself head first into a panic attack and picked up a phone calling a new clinic and scheduled an appointment with a new psychiatrist. I can’t get in until January 30th, but I’ve been battling to make an appointment for well over a year at this point, I’ll survive eight more weeks. I consider it a fucking miracle I was able to get an appointment in the first place. Considering I was DENIED an appointment when I tried to make one with Park Nicollet because they are fucked six ways from Sunday in their mental health department. Since that clusterfuck I have spent countless [late night] hours slogging through our insurance website looking for mental health care providers, trying to find a clinic that wasn’t fifty-plus miles from my house, had actual PSYCHIATRISTS (and not just licensed social workers), and did not have bullshit stipulations in order to get an appointment in the first place.

One started out looking good until I read farther about their practices and every other word was GOD. Which is all fine and dandy for some people, but I’m not going to go subject myself to shit I don’t believe in. One clinic had a detailed application process you had to go through just to be approved for an appointment to see if they would approve you for treatment. One clinic required patients to prove their commitment to extensive behavioral therapy before they would be allowed to see a psychiatrist. Most “Mental Health” clinics that showed up in the search results didn’t even employ mental health professionals and even fewer employ actual MDs. I finally found a clinic that was close [enough] to home, offered psychologists AND psychiatrists, didn’t require any bullshit application process, didn’t mention anything about religion, and SPECIFICALLY EXPLAINED that it is the PATIENT’S decision on how they want treatment to go—therapy or no therapy, psychiatrist only, combination of methods. It all seemed a little too perfect, but I bookmarked it, and revisited it countless times over several months.

I finally bit the bullet and picked up the phone. It was every bit as terrifying as the first time I made a phone call in March of 2007. My first question, “Are you accepting new patients?” (Big time problem with the big network providers of Park Nicollet, Allina, Fairview, Health Partners, et al.) and then “Can I make an appointment with a psychiatrist?”

I currently only have a date and time—January 30th at 9AM—but it’s a start. The phone call has been made. I just have to remember the appointment eight weeks from now.

By the time I hung up the phone, I was shaking so bad I could barely grip the damn phone. Then I saw I had a missed call from Bob—prophetic—so I called him back and failed miserably at not breaking down on him. He talked me down off the ledge, told me I did a good job, and I felt much less psychotic by the time we said goodbye. It took a good hour for the panic attack to abate, and then I wanted a damn nap.

I didn’t take a nap, but do you think I can sleep now? It’s three in the morning and here I sit. Because my brain is WIRED and I keep wishing it was Friday so I can have a weekend with my Bear.

*sigh*

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Call It My Way Ingram Hill