Purple is the color of bruising, of healing…
-musician/artist John Baizley
I feel like a little middle school kid, rushing to his diary to write about that cute girl at school who was nice and talked to him. I feel that way because that’s what happened today.
I’ve missed work since late last week because of agoraphobia-type anxiety. It was the worst. I suddenly couldn’t find it in me to do the job that the government hired me (pretty good money) for.
What did I do?
I stayed home. Slept. Drugged myself up and slept the days away. I made excuses to my wife, and I started the God-awful process of finding a therapist who would write me a note so I could miss work and not get in trouble for it.
By the way, if you have a therapist and he tells you to follow-up with him, be sure to DO IT. Or else you’ll be screwed months down the line when you need something from him. Like a note for work. Ugh. Trust me on this. (That guy was a whack-job anyway.)
So, I started the search for a new therapist. Through the years, I have yet to find the one that’s right for me, and most of them are like least-common-denominator material, if you know what I mean.
I didn’t care who I got: man, woman, whatever. My sights were low: I just wanted a damn note! That wasn’t too hard to ask for, was it?
The first lady, seemingly straight out of high school, did my “in-processing” yesterday and was far below stellar in the personality department.
“I do in-processing. Not notes.”
This morning I went for my therapy appointment, someone they “placed” me with, like it was a dating match site or something.
I sat there in the waiting room, praying that I would just get my note for my employer after a 45-minute chit-chat session.
Then she came to get me.
I’ll call her Jade. The beautiful blonde beam of sunshine came out to shake my hand. She seemed fresh out of grad school, yet with years of experience tucked under her belt. A curious one to say the least.
It’s not like I was suddenly in love, but it sure beat the individuals who passed as “therapists.” Jade was enthusiastic, very glad to see me, secure, and sincere.
She told me something that I haven’t forgotten:
Normal is a setting for washing machines.
That’s all. No one is “normal.” Even she has episodes of panic attacks.
We also did some mindfulness activities at the end that made me gush.
Oh gawd. Do I have a crush on my new therapist?!