Wednesday, March 27, 2013


How come celebrities go to rehab but regular schmoes go to therapy?  How LiLo would it be of me to name this post "Rehab?"

So you go to the "psych ward" at the hospital, and immediately you just start staring at people.  You kind of want to sit down really sly next to someone and be like, "So.  Whaddya in for?"  You look at all the closets and wonder if THAT'S where they keep the straight jackets.  You contemplate if the glass at the receptionists desk is bullet proof.

They hand you 5,673 papers to fill out and sign, but at least they give you a clipboard.  I of course didn't get them all finished.  Andy filled out all my paperwork in the actual hospital, so I'm just looking for the X's to sign beside.  They had a 25 question survey that was very eye opening.  No 1-10 scale here.  They were more "statements" then questions:

-I have no trouble sleeping.
-Some nights it's hard to fall asleep
-I fall asleep but can't stay asleep.
-I can't remember when I slept last.

-I am happy with my appearance.
-I am okay with my general look.
-I do not like the way I look.
-I am disgraced with my appearance.

-I do not drink.
-I drink socially.
-I drink more than I should.
-I am never sober.

-I do not want to kill myself.
-I've thought of killing myself but never would.
-I've tried to kill myself.
-If I had the chance, I'd kill myself.

And on and on.  25 of these.  And I was being really really serious with myself and realized that I was in worse shape than I thought I was.  I've never wanted to harm myself.  I'm not a drinker.  I'm not a smoker.  I wouldn't know what to do with street drugs if you laid them out in front of me.  But I'm a chronic "self-basher."  Like, for everything I have going for me, I really really hate myself.  I look in the mirror on a daily basis and just...cringe.  And I hate my job.  And I hate that I have to work so much.  And I hate that I'm missing out on my son's tiny life.

So I go in to see Pat.  She's short.  She walks slow.  Her hair is thinning.  Her office is worn and stuffy.  But I sort of felt at ease when she shut the door.  She started to ask me about myself.  About Andy.  About my life.  And I told her.  She was scribbling on a piece of paper, and three pages later she said- "Okay, let me read this back to you."  And she summarized my life in about 20 sentences.  I just laughed at her, because it was absurd, but it was my life.  But as I was listening, I realized the problem was not my life- the problem really was me.  It wasn't my husband or my mother, it was how I deal (or don't deal) with all the crap life hands at me. 

She said I needed to come in more often.    She suggested every two weeks.  This means I will have to take off work to come, but I'm dedicated to getting better.  So be it.

When I went home to Andy, I felt a little freer.  He asked me if I had to lay on a couch.  I said no, but I did SIT on a couch.  And he said, "Ah, so there WAS a couch..."  :)  I expect nothing less from him.  I instantly fell in love with him all over again.

So here we go.  Shout out to all my friends who at first were like, "Who?  You?  PPD?  You're like, the happiest person I know!"  And now are like, "Oh my goodness, we love you so much."