The Dread Diagnosis (or, The Tale of the Meddling Psychiatrist): continued

 How is it that I went to the store to specifically to get milk, and while I was there I bought five other items forgot to pick up the milk?  What is up with that?

   Anyway, I went back to see the meddling psychiatrist, sheathed in a new layer of fat like the glaze on a Christmas ham.  I would have drank a liter of water beforehand, too, but I was worried that they’d hook me up to one of those electric body fat analysis machines and accuse me of water loading.  I know all the tricks, and I know that they know the tricks, too.  Have no fear, doc, I gained it the honest way.

    “You look a little better,” he said.

    Fuck you! I thought, but what I said was: “Thanks.  I got my period, too.”  This was, in fact, the case.  I wanted to hurl my bloody kotex at him.  Ha!  Take that!  Happy now?

     “How are those bruises?”

     “All gone!” I chirped, like a bright little bird.


Portrait of the Author as a Young Sparrow

    “How are other things in your life?”

    Compared to what?  Compared to the incredible amount of stress you’ve forced me to endure the last two weeks?  Compared to that, everything else in my life was gravy, and that includes my ex, The Surgeon, calling me up and leaving long messages on my voicemail about how he’s worried he might have cancer. (note to readers: The Surgeon does not have cancer.  He has hypochondria.  Just trust me on this one.  I’ve been through this before with him.).

    “Okay.  School is hard.”  I talked about about my scholastic woes, my mother’s upcoming visit, the life changes of my friends.

     He seemed mollified.  Wants to see me again at the end of the semester.  I was agreeable, but in my mind I thought: No way in hell.  I know what to do.  The place will be a zoo of students trying to get out of their final exams with a doctor’s note and getting their prescriptions for medication renewed before they go away for the summer.  I’ll call the office a week before my appointment and cancel, promising to call back later in the day to reschedule.  Then I’ll never call back.

     Unless the shrink remembers me with urgency and personally gets on my ass to come back and see him, I should be able to just…fall through the cracks.

     Intentionally, this time.  

    Well, this blog post doesn’t exactly portray me in the best light and the last one in this series was truly a shining example of intentional deceit  and irrational thinking.  Actually, let me revise that.  What I wrote on this blog is the truth.  I manipulated the psychiatrist to avoid the diagnosis, but I admitted to doing it here.  Does that make me honest?  I lied, but I think that circumstances forced me to.  If I’m justified, does that mean I am not dishonest?  I’m so confused.

    I mean, you’d have to be blind to miss the rationalization, justification, minimization, and flat-out dishonesty and denial that I was practicing in my last post on this.  You could substitute drinking for the eating disorder and it would be a textbook example of active alcoholic thinking: I’m fine.  I have this under control.  Why are you hassling me about it?  I know what I’m doing.  How dare you tell me to stop.  This is none of your business.  Why are you doing this to me.  I’ll fool you!  


    Of course, when I was drinking, nobody ever told me to quit.  I avoided that my terminating most of my relationships.  Ha, ha.

    Well, what can I take away from this?  I guess what I knew all along.

     You quit when you’re ready.  You quit when you’re ready, and not a minute before.


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