So, my therapist thinks I have an anxiety "situation". I know, shocking, right? My giggling when she said this did not help matters. She cocked her head to the side and laughed nervously, nothing compared to my maniacal guffaw.
Geez, ya think? What gave it away? The grey circles under my eyes? Or was it the red rims? Or jeans hanging off my ass which is raw from not having any solid "movement"? Just curious what it was that gave you the impression that I have anxiety.
I wanted to scream "Don't tease me! Write the f***in' script! I know you can do it." Of course, I did not say this, I sat calmly and asked toneless questions.
"So, are you suggesting medication? What kind? Is it addictive? I'm not sure I feel comfortable with this." God, I am so full of shit. But it was a good show, I tell you.
Still no script, I once again have resorted to Zyrtec chased by hot milk.
It's not gonna work.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
That's okay, I just learned that medical pot is legal in MA. So I went to my therapist the other day and asked for some. Did I get it no, but I am not done trying!
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