Work is still a hellish mess. In fact, I will be returning to that kitchen to bake more shortly. I have come to the conclusion that if two of my coworkers drank  56 pints of beer on the clock and were still there when the head manager and executive chef arrived they were celebrating the fact that they were planning on quitting anyway. There are cameras everywhere at my work. When the tapes were played and the amount of beer consumed was brought to light I must admit I was impressed not only by their ability to consume so much beer and still bake well over the amount of bread required for the next day but also by the fact that they had the liquid balls to tell the executive chef exactly what they thought of him. Had I not been off on the now legendary night things never would have gotten so far out of hand and I am certain that I would have gotten them out  the door before the arrival of anyone else. The bottom line is they made a decision and I am not responsible for the actions of two grown men. I do miss them both as we had developed a close rapport as coworkers. On the night shift with a small crew it is wonderful if I am surrounded by people I feel comfortable with. I can only hope I can develop that type of relationship with the freshly hired faces who will soon be heading through the doors.

I have been working an extreme quantity of hours. I had Monday night off, at long last a respite. Monday afternoon as I made my way home I stopped at a liquor store and purchased two bottles of scotch. I gave one to Alex and set the other aside for later. After a nap I awoke and looking forward to a night with my husband I drank from that bottle. We snuggled in the bed together and caught up on TV shows, Californication, Weeds, Dexter. I continued to pour by the light of the screen. I was very thirsty apparently because I drank an entire fifth alone. Alex, realizing that I had gone way too far, cooked me potato and tofu burritos and kindly filled my alcohol soaked stomach. As the room started to spin, he stayed by my side. Throughout my brief naps he brought water to my lips to ward off the oncoming dehydration. Fortunately both of our children were asleep and did not see me in that condition. I had been doing such a good job staying sober up until that night. I made a mistake. More important than the consequence of the hangover I have right now is the feeling of disappointment I feel today. I slipped and here I am, getting back up.

I need to get ready for work now. I have no idea what my schedule looks like for this week. I will try to check in here more often. Please know that I do read every comment and email and I appreciate you all.

Polly Self Portrait

The young boy dishwasher at my work is so small that the first day I saw him, back when I started the job in May, I wondered why he wasn’t in school. It turns out that he’s 20 and just very short. He gets teased a lot, called a hobbit etc., and I can’t say I ever gave him much sympathy because his disposition is so nasty I would have fired him months ago. He stands around and bitches constantly about washing dishes. He bitches in the kitchen; he complains when I bring him dishes to the dish pit, he finally announced that he wouldn’t continue there unless he was promoted to prep. To my surprise they started pulling him into the kitchen from time to time, having him do mundane tasks like run the slicer and slam hundreds of pounds of potatoes through the potato cutter for French fries. He told tales to the chefs and prep cooks alike of his guitar skills or as it was put, “what he was really going to do with his life.” I ignored him. The majority of the people there are going to be something else: a writer, an actor, a doctor, an executive chef, a musician.

The other day when he was called from the crazy hell of a steaming room of filthy pots, plates, silverware, garbage, cloth napkins etc. and into the hustling room full of knife wielding hopefuls I noticed that he took the time to go all the way upstairs to the locker room to get a chef’s jacket to replace his snap button, short sleeve, dishwasher shirt. I saw him fussing with all of the buttons as he sat on the stairs and suddenly felt guilty that I’d written him off easily as just a whiny, bitchy, lazy, little fuck. Not that he isn’t a whiny, bitchy, lazy, little fuck, but he still hopes to be something. Me? I like the dishwasher shirts better than the long sleeve multi button, thick chef jackets. They’re just too hot for people to stand in front of such heat for so many hours.

***

When I arrived at work a coworker was standing in my station, the song “Magic Man” blasting from the speakers on the shelf above him as he occasionally sang out “Barracuda!” “What are you doing?” I asked him. He started talking about something work related and I motioned to the speakers, befuddled, as another “Barracuda!” escaped his lips. “I am singing along to Barracuda.” I couldn’t believe these two songs could be mistaken for each other, so I quickly corrected him. He started to argue with me, and I wondered why I cared so much.

***

I saw him crossing the street towards me as I waited downtown for the bus. He was wrapped in a sleeping bag, his hair a wild mass of grey dreadlocks, his clothes so worn they were literally falling from his body. “Can you spare three bucks so I can get something to eat?” he said. I reached into my purse and grabbed the banana that I had brought to work but had no time to eat and extended it to him. “I don’t want a fucking banana; I want three bucks so I can get something to eat!” he yelled out, his face a mass of sores and his teeth an array of brown slivers cracking off in his gums. As I saw him stomp away, still yelling out about something I couldn’t make out, I placed the banana back as I gazed down the street for the next bus, longing to see my number, to rest my aching feet on the ride home.

Currently listening to: Rufus Wainwright Hallelujah.

Susan, I can think of no higher compliment than you taking your time to read through my archives. Thank you.

Kristen, the fact that you left a comment, “Haunting, beautifully so. ” is amazing, especially considering that’s how I feel about your writing.

K, you have been reading from the almost beginning, and I am lucky we found each other. I will hold my father’s letter close to my heart.

Bokker, I am happy to hear that you found me, especially through Thursday.  I appreciate your comment , “Thanks for writing- I know how hard it is to articulate loss, but I think it helps people.” A lot of people have questioned me for speaking out through my writing, but the world is a lonely enough place without thinking there’s no one out there who can relate. Do stop back in if you wish. I’ll put the kettle on.

Josh, I don’t know why woman have a thing for gnarly looking men. I like men to look like they’ve lived. If that involves a bad case of acne and alcoholism, so be it. I’m thinking of Charles Bukowski here. Very handsome man. As for penises, I hate to think men wouldn’t take the extra seconds to wash if they’re not circumcised, but I know better. So I am not going to think about it. Lalalallalalala. Has anyone heard any good songs lately???

***

One more statement about why I choose to write about my father’s suicide and the effects it has had on me: I have seen this from both sides now. I have been that 12 year old child who lost her father and I have been a depressed mother thinking about suicide. My point is this: The pain for the survivors never goes away. The guilt, the feelings that you should have saved the person, loved them better, all still there. For me it has lessened, but it’s in there, and sometimes I feel that sharp pain in my heart, that feeling of not being able to breathe, and it comes back. My Dad gave me life with my mother, and then over and over again in showing me the consequences to families when someone takes their life. I credit my mom for holding us together in the only way she knew how.

***

I have been working the day shift and the night shift. On the day shift they have a meeting every single morning before the restaurant opens. I realize that it is a good time for the kitchen staff and the servers to get together so the specials of the day can be described. The one part that gets more than a bit old is when the managers talk about the wines and beers. The good point of this is we get to sit down for a minute and they offer samples of different drinks so we can try them. The down side is the descriptions of the wines and the beers are so lengthy, including an at depth discussion of food pairings , that I find myself wanting to get back to the kitchen so I can get finished and go home. I would like to offer my services for this part of the morning meeting, even though I do not fit the wine connoisseur label. I would be straight to the point, “This is a Pinot Blanc from California. It is a very dry white wine. Too dry, in fact. (sips water) It is being offered at $9.50 per glass, and they don’t even fill that thing the whole way, can you believe that? You should know what to pair it with, you’ve been working here for months. Otherwise, just let the customer pick, because they’re paying after all.”

Anyway, work is good, even though I am getting bored. I need to make something new. I never want to see another hoagie or hamburger bun for as long as I live. The only thing that looks promising is that I can create artisan bread every week, the flavor is my choice, as long as we have a white and a wheat or rye variety because it looks better on the plates, and the promising thing is it’s pumpkin time. I saw that the cans of pumpkin were in and I hope I will be allowed to create some dessert specials for Fall.  I also have some sweet potato recipes that would work well.

I had my 90 day review, two months late, and got a raise and a lot of kudos. I was also told what I need to improve on. This is the first company I have worked for who has had the official reviews where I have to fill out paperwork listing my strengths and weaknesses. This was way harder than I imagined it would be. I fretted over that stupid paper and even asked my boss if I could punch out, have a beer or two, and then fill out the papers. I was that nervous. Apparently they pay you to fill this shit out so I sat down with a smoke and a coffee and just did it.

This entry isn’t getting any longer, despite my having started it days ago, so I am going to post it and try again soon.

Currently listening to: Joni Mitchell.

For whatever reason, I wish for this to be mostly a stand alone entry. I would say to those of you who haven’t been longtime readers, or those who weren’t willing to pick through the archives (and I can’t say I blame you. I tried to do it once and almost decided to delete 99% of it) that it might help to read this entry first.

Anyway, I’ve been off work for a few days so I have been trying to tackle a portion of the paper that exists in my life. I started with the cleaning of the side of the desk that I share with Alex ,to the drawer I have in the file cabinet. I use this drawer frequently, mostly by opening it, shoving papers inside, and shutting the door. I did this the year my mom decided to give each of her children a copy of her new, updated will for Christmas. I glanced at the front page and then shoved it into the drawer.

Deep down in the archives of my years I came across a folded piece of paper. It gave me pause immediately. It appeared yellow with age and perhaps a slight bit stained by water. I have no idea how it came into my possession, no recollection of ever having read it before. It was written by my Dad.

“Tammy is eight years old. I am her dad home from work and very tired. She tells me of her day at school. How Sister, her teacher, has some prayers for her to learn. I hold her list as she recites. She reads from her book and I learn how Africans spend their day. I look on as she does her Math. We talk of our fishing trips and of her thrill at using my pole. I hope that next time she will catch a fish. We play a card game called Fish. I try to make sure she ends up with more books than me. She snuggles next to me nearly asleep. I feel good and not tired at all. Now it is time for her to go to bed. I watch her slowly slowly fall asleep. How beautiful she is to me and how great it is to be a Dad.

.4 (152/16 + 2 100) = .4 (9.5+1.32) =.4 (10.8) = 4.32

5 long sentences”

You see, Pammy Sue, it’s not always sad. But it’s always there inside me, somewhere.

Currently listening to: Beck “Nobody’s Fault But My Own”

Polly wanted to make sure I gave her credit for this photo.

I haven’t been even a tenth of the writer I wanted to be here. I had made a vow to also be a reader, to read and reply to my comments and emails, to reach out, to give back. I have been comforted by each of your words, and grateful that you took the time to leave them here.

I noticed immediately after the aforementioned incident with Chef Medium Cheddar that my anxiety level hit a high I haven’t seen in years. I dreaded going to work; I dreaded the hour he would arrive. I think I’ve mentioned before that I work with a group of guys, all of them seeming like boys really, except for one man, Joseph, who is closer to my age at 30. When I returned after the incident where I was yelled at I started to work immediately and he asked me what was wrong. I tried brushing him off and smiling, but he knew. We have had a few opportunities to talk alone since we started working together and we have opened up and shared just enough of our respective stories to know that we have struggled and why, although I must admit when he calmly told me his, a story filled with abusive stepfathers, a mother who abandoned him and the horrors he and his brother lived through in various foster homes, I could have wept for the little boy he once was. On another note, we both suffer from clinical depression and panic disorder, although his panic attacks were only recently diagnosed and treated. The similarities pretty much end there. He is strong and vocal and takes absolutely no shit from anyone, no matter what position they hold.

When I finally told him the condensed version of being yelled at he immediately asked why I hadn’t stood up for myself. When I told him that it was someone who is our superior there he was adamant, “I don’t give a fuck who it was. You respond to that kind of treatment with a demand for respect.” His voice softened quite a bit and he spoke to me softly, “I know that it is hard for you, but you are going to have to learn how to stand up for yourself. The first few times you do it it’s going to be real hard, but it will get easier. Soon enough people will learn that you won’t tolerate it and it will stop. And if you do get fired, you can walk out with your head held high.” I knew he was right in the same way I knew it was going to be something I may never master.

I did talk with Alex about it, and he said that if something similar happens again to bypass all of the cheeses in the kitchen and to head straight upstairs to the office that holds the head cheese of the whole operation where I am to calmly request a meeting regarding the incident. One of the reasons I clung to Alex from such a young age was the fact that he takes no shit from anyone. There is truth in what both Joseph and Alex said to me and if history is any indication, this will continue to come up until I can learn not to flee, not to cry, not to hide.

I haven’t written about my children in some time. Nathan had a wonderful visit to LA with my cousin. My only complaint would be that he came back whining about the weather here in Portland and bemoaning the fact that he wasn’t raised in LA. This type of griping gets old fast and so I have pointed out to him that he will be 18 soon, and at that point he can move himself to LA where everything is “perfect” , as he puts it. He is otherwise doing well. He decided to obtain his GED and is now starting college at the end of this month. He actually consulted me on his course selections and I told him to make sure to take at least one class that would be fun. He seems excited to be moving on and my heart is full as I watch him forge ahead. For a long time I was so afraid for his future. He has mellowed considerably and his anger doesn’t often get the best of him anymore.

Polly is in 8th grade this year. She is still avidly taking photographs and drawing. I am still trying to resist the urge to be way more overprotective with her than I am with Nathan. She has really come out of her shell at this school she is in. She has a solid group of friends and her calendar of events is too hard to keep in my head so I had to create a document for it on the computer to keep everything straight. She is still a voracious reader, something that pleases me to no end, and I can only hope that she knows how much I love her, as she is doing the pull me close push me away thing that is normal, but oh so painful as a parent.

I will try harder to write more. My laptop broke, and Alex can’t fix it, so I need to take it in for repair. I should have paid for the extended warranty. I always figure Alex can fix everything, but sometimes, no. I was actually happy that the damn laptop decided to die when he was using it. I hate being the one with my hand in the cookie jar when it shatters, every damn time.

I made it through that day fine and then resumed my not a day shift, not a night shift . This morning after a long night I was finishing up some dessert items with my supervisor. She sent me over to the stove top to cook a fruit sauce and one of the chefs, not the big cheese chef, but maybe the medium cheddar? chef screamed at me to get out of his way. As I gathered my few items up I could feel tears spring to my eyes I was so stunned. As I made my retreat he shouted out again, “This is a big kitchen, you can find another place to make that!”(For the record, small kitchen for such a large restaurant, only one stove top, six burners) It was in my mind as I was walking back towards the tiny baker’s bench we work on to unbutton my chef jacket, to throw my company provided hat in the garbage and to just walk out. I went to my supervisor and told her I couldn’t make the cherry sauce . She took the pot from me and went and placed it on the stove top. No one said a work to her. She tried to make light of it, telling me that Chef Medium Cheddar was having a bad day. Funny, I was having a bad day all of the sudden too.

I worked on the tiramisu and after I’d finished that we started wrapping desserts. I placed our dirty dishes into our large mixing bowl (the one with wheels) and pushed it carefully through the maze of people into the dish room. As soon as I entered ,the dishwasher screamed, “I keep doing more and more dishes and more keep coming!” I was going to make a no shit type of comment but I looked at his red face, the spit flying, the wild eyes and got the fuck out of there. That particular dishwasher is one I don’t like to interact with as he either has some sort of mental retardation or he’s so fucked from too many years of drug use that he can barely function except to wash dishes and when he feels the need to talk, the subject of his prison records and list of felonies always comes up and the whole thing makes me shudder and think of that guy in Silence of the Lambs, “It rubs the lotion on its skin. It does this whenever it is told.”

Strangely, Buffalo Bill dishwasher came right up to me before I left and apologized. I respect that. Chef Medium Cheddar played everything is just fine and yelled out something I couldn’t hear about there being water on the floor, and where did it come from? as I walked away, no turning back.

Anyway, I am home now and heading toward the bed, but I just wanted to get this off of my chest. I haven’t told Alex and I don’t think I will because he always points out that I don’t stick up for myself and that I really should, but it’s very hard for me.

Why is it that my daughter Polly finds slugs disgusting, yet she will hold a snail and declare how cute he is and can she keep him? I mean, does the shell make one cute? Would a cute little turtle be ugly without his shell? Never mind, I just answered my own questions. Turtles aren’t cute, and I think I remember seeing Franklin without a shell during the days when I had to read the same books over and over to my kids until I thought I’d scream and he wasn’t cute either. Of course I could have said no, but back then I was very worried about being a wonderful mom. Now I am just hoping In Treatment comes back on soon because I want Gabriel Burne , sexually. I am like one of his patients, except I am not a doctor.

Speaking of doctors, a coworker of mine had an asthma attack the other night at work and then he started having a panic attack because he couldn’t breathe. I snapped at him, asking where his inhaler was. He replied that he kept it at home because he didn’t want to rely on it. If I had asthma I’d have an inhaler around my neck on a dog chain. I’d probably carry another one in my purse in case of malfunction.

I told him my CPR was rather rusty and he laughed and I offered him a Klonopin. I probably made the right decision when I decided not to go to Nursing School.

Speaking of shells, this would be a great time for a “to circumcise or not to circumcise?” fight in my comments. I personally agree with the idea of letting your son make the choice himself. As for looking at penises, I am indifferent. I don’t really have much interest in looking at penises. When I was in second grade my eldest sister took me to Plaid Pantry and led me to the Kool-Aid section. I thought she was going to buy Kool-Aid and I was all excited because my Mom only gave us juice, water or milk. Or tea, or beer. Pop on special occasions.Forget it, I was writing about penises. My sister reached way back and pulled out some magazine and opened it up to a naked man. He was sitting there looking off to the side with that expression on his face, who me? I am not sitting on this chair naked. I screamed when I realized what I was seeing and pointed at the picture and yelled out, “Oh my god! It’s a slug!” My sister shoved the magazine back as she clapped her hand over her mouth to cover the laughter.

The remains of the former brewery, Henry Weinhards, that they tore down to “revitalize the Pearl District”, here in downtown Portland. Certain parts of that brewery are on the historic registrair, so they were required to leave them.

My cousin has moved from Australia to LA. He flew up last weekend for a visit and took my son Nathan back down with him Tuesday. Nathan will be spending a week there and from what I’ve heard from him he is loving California and wishing we would move down there. Even though I spent a great deal of time preparing for Nathan to leave I was still in a panicked rush the morning of his departure. I realized that I hadn’t really been properly preparing; I had just been worrying. I have never been able to turn off that part of me, the part that can never seem to calm down enough to enjoy the now and to stop spending so much time fretting. I had several moments of sadness over my son leaving, although I knew he would have a lot of fun and would be well taken care of. There’s just something about him being 16 and knowing that his life plans don’t include living here with us forever.

Polly is fine. She has started the full fledged whining about boredom now that August has arrived. I found some sites online where she could practice Algebra as that is the subject she struggles with and she actually did homework, in the summer. I have tried hard to organize activities for her to keep her busy but it’s never enough. I don’t remember my mom entertaining us as children; that was our job.

Tina asked about how I deal with the fact that I don’t drive and the subsequent questions. I will write more about that later, but those of you who suffer from anxiety issues and/or depression please remember what it took me too many years to learn: Your accomplishments may be different from other peoples, but they are accomplishments nonetheless. I went from having a case of agoraphobia so severe that I couldn’t check the mail because it seemed impossible to be able to open the front door to slip my hand in the mailbox. Now I am holding down a full time job and traveling around Portland by bus no problem. Never give up hope and keep trying.

I need to catch some sleep before I work tonight so I’ll head bed ways and try not to feel bad about the fact that I can’t spend as much time here writing as I want to, and the fact that I am behind on my email . Please know I am reading your comments and emails and they all mean a lot to me.

I absolutely loved reading your comments and I am not just saying that. I always get very excited when you lovely people comment and I read my comments over and over. Feel free to diagnose me accordingly ; today I am feeling rather good. I had my first appointment with my new psychiatrist yesterday. In case I didn’t mention it, or you forgot, my primary care physician insisted I see someone and then told me she would no longer prescribe psychiatric medications for me, just to give me some “I’m out of Klonopin!” nerves and “I’m running low on Paroxetine! Side effects of withdrawal will be hell!” jitters. I was surprisingly not angry with her for this. I know she knew it was the only way I would go and she used it and I say well played, if her intentions were good, and I think they were. Anyway, I was originally unhappy because there were so few psychiatrists accepting new patients so I got stuck with a man when I had asked for a woman. Now, I love men. I usually get along with them better than women, truth be told. But I have had male doctors in the past and I thought I would be more comfortable with a woman. Plus, this guy’s office is far away from my house and after I wrote down his name and the appointment time Alex googled him and he got his degree from the University of They Have Universities in That Country!?!? I know that sounds horrible, but if I named the country you would know what I mean, as it’s associated with dire poverty, starvation, and death. Angelina Jolie is expected to swoop down in her private jet and adopt a child from that country any minute just because it’s that bad there. Plus, I was worried that he would have an accent I wouldn’t understand and then I’d have to either tell him, “I’m sorry. I am only catching every third word here.” or I’d have to shoot for context and just nod and hope my responses were correct. I don’t have the best hearing and it has become increasingly clear that I need to get a hearing aid or at least a Miracle Ear implanted but I haven’t even wanted to deal with any of that.

I spent yesterday morning fretting and filling out the forms they sent weeks ago. I actually had to attach another sheet of paper to list all of the medications I take. When I got to the family history part I was worried because the first thing on there were the questions about my parents, their ages, are they living, and if not, cause of death. I actually considered lying about my Dad. I feared that as soon as I wrote “Father, Death in 1985 at age 57, Cause: Suicide” that would be the primary focus of the appointment.i went ahead and told the truth, figuring it would be in my medical records anyway. My mom offered to drive me. At first I resisted, but she had a compelling argument; she’s only seen me once since she returned from Australia, and she knew I was going to be taking a bus to a hospital I am not familiar with and she has been there several times. I agreed and when she insisted she would wait until my one hour appointment was over and drive me back home I asked if she would like to go out to lunch, my treat, and then maybe visit a plant nursery. She was excited about the nursery idea, and she knew one that she thought I would like in the vicinity of the hospital.

When we arrived at the hospital and found the wing that contained the doctor’s office I started to have a panic attack in the elevator up. I didn’t say anything but I was considering reaching for my last few Klonopin and popping a couple when my mom reached out and squeezed my hand and smiled. I knew then that she wasn’t there because I was unfamiliar with that part of town, or that hospital. I felt like a big, dopey kid trapped in the body of a thirty five year old woman. I decided against the pills, partly because I thought it might be beneficial for the doctor to see me in the panic state I live in most of the time, but mostly because I was almost out and what if he didn’t give me any prescriptions?

My mom lead the way off of the elevator, knowing somehow the exact ways to turn, as I followed carrying racing heart, churning tummy, and a dizzy head. After I’d checked in with the receptionist I looked through the stacks of magazines and pulled out some that I knew my mom would enjoy. I stared down at my dirty clogs and realized that I should have cleaned the dried flour off of them before I came, but I hadn’t thought of it. My mom read bits and pieces aloud from a magazine, some article about saving thousands at the grocery store. A dark skinned man in a well cut suit entered and walked through the waiting room and through the door. My mom was excited like a school girl, bouncing in her seat, “That’s him! That’s your doctor! He’s so cute! Isn’t he handsome? Oh my!” I felt awkward sitting there in jeans and a T shirt, clogs still dirty from baking at work, my face free of makeup, my hair pulled into a ponytail with bobby pins slipped onto the sides of my head to catch those wisps of hair that always slip out and curl around my face.

When he came to the door and called my name I stood on wobbly legs and followed him. We made out introductions but he didn’t shake hands. He led me into the smallest office I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a closet, seriously. There was enough room for a desk and two chairs and that’s it. I had brought a water bottle with me and when I asked if it was OK if I sat it down on the corner of his desk he said, “Yes, it’s OK, I will be drinking my coffee”, and then motioned to his Starbucks cup. I realized that he thought I was asking permission to drink and I smiled and said that I didn’t want to leave a white ring because of the condensation and he just waved that worry off, not the type to bother with coasters I suppose.

He asked for the history of the meds I have taken in the past and believe me, I had to pull out notes for that one. So many years, so many different pills. He asked the history of my depression and anxiety and a few other general questions. Happy marriage? Good kids? Work history? Etc. The only things that gave him pause to question me further were the facts that I admitted I have no friends, the fact that I don’t know how to drive, (he thought that to be absolutely stunning and questioned me in depth about how I’d managed that), and the fact that I admitted to worrying more about my daughter than my son, (he said he felt like I was projecting something from my own childhood onto my daughter). I imagine that I am not the only one who worries more about my teenage daughter than my teenage son (people help me out here, have you experienced this?) but I didn’t argue with him about it. He questioned the fact that my Mom was in the waiting room and took notes about the fact that she drove me there, but whatever.

There was a moment in that hour somewhere where he let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I wondered if it was a test to see how I’d react. I sat in silence for some time as I looked around the closet room and then I finally asked him, “So, I am guessing you don’t treat many claustrophobics ?” He looked confused for a few moments until he looked around his office and laughed large. I felt better because I always try to make my doctors laugh at least once and for damn near 200 dollars an hour he’d better find me funny every so often, or at least fake it.

Mostly he talked about anxiety and how much harder it is to treat than depression because anxiety is a normal human emotion and then he went into medications and an in depth account of how they work and although I have done a lot of reading about this myself over the years I didn’t want to interrupt him. He said that he would be happy to provide me with my prescriptions and wrote them out and told me to make a follow up appointment with the receptionist. Basically it was much easier than I had worried about and he gets mad props for not making me tell the whole story of child abuse and my dad’s suicide because I didn’t want to and I was afraid he would say he needed to see me three times a week but nope, just once a month.

Afterwards my mom and I went out for Mexican food even though my mom has this “If it’s wrapped in a tortilla it’s crap” opinion. She selected the restaurant. I ignored the margaritas even though I really wanted oneand we had a nice talk. When we were finished we went to a nursery where I bought a bunch of plants for my garden. When I got home Polly and Nathan came out and helped me plant them, and that my friends was the best therapy of all.