I decided I wouldn't let the Monster Voice own me ...yet. Will see how I do later, but for now, I'm ok.
I did some brave stuff. First, I sent a copy of the "ok, ok" post to appropriate department heads at the station.
Now, given my experience with Mom, this was a risk. Mom used any tenderness, intimacy, admission of humanity...as ammunition against me.
I suspect this could happen in this other context, as well. Esp. with the issue of certain people trying to encourage me into going into therapy.
I finally put my foot down. I said to a "boss" at the station, "have YOU ever gone for councilling at UNM Hospital???"
Drug 'em and plug 'em: get the cliants manageable on medication, send 'em out the door.
I mean no disrespect, but no 12 step, Therapy du Jour is going to get it for me.
I'm not a low-functioning schizophrenic who just needs to be shuffled off to a rehab, a half way house and a minimum wage gig.
That easy lay school of "psychology" is DANGEROUS to me!
I don't want burned out beurocrats, rummaging around in my psyche, promoting their hidden agendas, threatening sanctions if I don't comply.
Nope: I really believe the ONLY way for me to heal is to heal myself.
Can you say, "A Beautiful Mind?" Remember what the medical "profession" did to HIM???! Savages!
I'm NOT, by way of clarification, scizophrenic., bipolar or any of those brain chemical disabilities.
Post Traumatic Stress here. Diagnosed, however, as depression. PTSD doesn't qualify for Disability benefits--go figure. Garden variety depression does.
Look, for those of you who've been reading these posts: do I SEEM depressed to you???
Whatever; it bought me some time and a little income, 'til I could pull myself up and out again...which is what's up right now.
The second brave thing I did was write to my advisor. He's coming over to fiddle with the computer tomorrow, anyway, and bring me a telephone tapping thingy.
The subject of my email was: "Give me work!"
I'm just worried I'm getting rusty. There's already stuff I can't remember.
So, I said that, if he had any stuff laying around, I'd like a turn at it, if it's not date sensitive.
He's got work. Whew! And may even pay me "a little." Hell, I'll work for free; I ain't proud! I need to get my head out my butt so I can see something besided my own um byproducts.
Then, I pulled out my Fry Daddy and fried me up a mess o' taters.
The panic is gone. I feel bruised, from the intensity of the experience; it's a strong after effect.
I even had chest pains!
I'm tender and sore and raw and shakey, but the worst, more acute, sharp pain of panic is GONE!
THat fast!
Not weeks, months, years...I did it in about an hour.
Whatever or whoever is helping me do this scary work, thank you! I'm finding resources of strenght and wisdom I didn't know I had available!
And, if it's just me doing this, thank me! LOL
I'm a tough, old broad. That's one of the GOOD things I inherited from that bitch mother of mine.
So, when all else fails, face the bitch square in the eye, tell somebody you're being abused, find hard work, and fry potatoes!
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