So I’ve been thinking it’s time I came to terms with the fact that my latest bad mood isn’t going to go away on its own. Further, if I were to be really honest about it, it’s pretty much the extended dance remix of an unresolved sadness I encountered about a month ago.
I worked in the mental health field long enough to know that everybody’s crazy, and that I don’t need therapy because everyone ELSE is fucking nuts. On the other hand, I’m not above paying someone to let them hear me bitch up a blue streak! 😉
My typical response to stress and the unfairness of life has always been to drink excessively and enjoy the company of inappropriate men. These days, I do both in moderation. I need an outlet, yo.
I’ve never been one to pick up the phone and vent. I had my circle in D.C., though, who knew me well enough to know when to approach and know when to let me slay my demons on my own. The common denominator (other than me being a mild basket case) was that my many someones always knew that something was brewing. They might not have known whether it was a tropical storm or a full-out Cat-5 hurricane, but they just knew.
And these days, I feel like a mime. Like, how many times to I have to claw at the invisible box around me before someone realizes this isn’t normal behavior, even for me?
I hit my limit this morning when I was researching local therapists and the Over-Extended Houseguest — who finished off my soy-wasabi peanuts AND found my secret stash of soft chocolate-chip cookies (and ATE THEM) — burst into my room to inform me that someone ran over a frog in the parking lot.
*headslam*
OK, God, I’ll quit asking you for that sign that I need therapy now!
I keep trying to leave my “pity, party of one” but it’s the Hotel California of pity parties this week. But it’s the only party I’m able to attend this weekend, so I’ll have a drink for everyone!