Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Grief Counseling = Complete Retardation

I recently started seeing a grief counselor and I somehow simultaneously became mentally unstable. It’s interesting how the two coincide. But hell, I had to do something. My life was quickly becoming a really bad episode of the real world . I was undoubtedly the drunk girl in every season with her Ed Hardy hat on sideways screaming obscenities at everyone within a one mile radius.

I knew in my heart that the steps I took on my own to push through my emotional rollercoaster were only baby steps and really getting me no where. People say that toddlers look like a drunk person trying to walk when they first start out on their feet. Needless to say I took this to another level and went ahead and added crown and coke into my regular diet.

I have only been to two sessions and I am more than ready to give up completely. I meet with Dr. Evil every Tuesday. After our first meeting, she recommended that I come in once a week instead of every other week. I believe that was her polite way of telling me that I really needed a designated “out of order” sign to wear around my neck everyday. I agreed.

Last weeks session was like jumping off of a high dive in the middle of winter in your birthday suit. I was not at all prepared for the flood gates that followed. I did not know which was way up for the first couple of days and then went ahead and ended the week with going bat shit crazy on Brett Michaels. He packed up his things and left the next day.

Following that train wreck, I tried to leave town for the weekend and go out to my family’s farm to “get away”. This was not my brightest idea to date. My poor mother drug me around parts of Texas that even legislation had not seen for decades. I could barely get out of the car most of the time, my stomach was in knots, and I would have rather milked a bull then put food in my mouth. This road trip obviously did not work and I found myself praying for Monday.

I have another appointment with Dr. Evil tonight. I am not exactly thrilled at the idea of spending another hour locked inside a tiny room full of mirrors and questions that I do not have the answer to. Since fleeing to Costa Rica is not exaclty an option for me on a random Tuesday, I will have to settle for picturing her head as a basketball and squishing it while she is talking. Surely she will not be offended by this.