1. I don't know how to start this post. I'm not ready to write it, maybe. But if I wait till I'm ready I'll never write it. So I am taking my courage in my hands and writing.
2. In September I started going to counseling. I put it off for a long time, because...well, because I thought I wasn't sick enough. Because I thought I had to tell my parents.
Then one day I thought, If I wait till I'm ready to tell them I'll never go.
So I went, and I paid in cash, because my mother's name is on my checking account and I didn't want her to ask why I was spending $5 every two weeks on the health center.
I'm sorry, parents.
3. I have an anxiety disorder. Well, I probably have more than one, but my current diagnosis is Anxiety Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. I love the deliciously specific nonspecificness of that term.
4. I am also clinically depressed. Was. I don't know. I like to think I'm getting better, but then days happen where I have to tell myself, "If you don't stop having days like this you have to go back to counseling."
5. I haven't been since the very beginning of December. I'm still trying to figure out what I think of it. The first session, I talked and she listened and I thought it was the best thing ever. The second session, she talked and I listened, and she said all the things I've heard a thousand times before and I thought all the things I'd thought a thousand times before, and I almost didn't go back.
But I had nowhere else to go, so I went back and I said, essentially, No, your answers are not adequate. Give me better ones. I found the answers eventually, but the part I'm not sure about is whether she helped me find them.
I think if nothing else counseling taught me how to put my foot down, how to say, "No, your answers are not adequate."
Then again, I haven't said that sort of thing to anybody else, so maybe I didn't learn my lesson well enough.
6. She thinks I have Asperger's Syndrome too. Or thought it. Maybe she's forgotten all about it by now.
I told her no, I do not have Asperger's. And then over Christmas I read a book. It was about a girl with Asperger's. It was fiction. It was supposed to be escape, you know? And it wasn't. It hurt, because it was the frustration of my whole life condensed into about a hundred pages.
I read a lot of stuff the next few days, and made an account on WrongPlanet.Net, and posted once. But I didn't again because I felt...not at home. What does it say about me that I feel out of place in a place intended for people who feel out of place in the world?
7. Trouble is, I know where I belong. I belong barefoot in a kitchen in Cincinnati, with my head bent down to fit in that spot atop his shoulder that is exactly the right size and shape for my head.
But I can't be there, and it feels like I spend every day with my chest hollowed out because of it, and I want to scream and break things and then curl up and cry, but God says quietly, "Wait," and so I wait. Even though I really want to collect everybody who ever said that Scott and I shouldn't get married (because we're too young, or too poor, or too full of problems) and face them and stomp my foot and say, "No, your answers are not adequate. Give me better ones."
And then God says, for the hundredth time, "Behold, I make all things new," and I can't say that's not an adequate answer to this crazy thing that my life has become. I have to end with that, even though it's too saccharine, even though I don't want to be pious like that, because that's what He has been using as the constant refrain of the last impossibly hard year of my life.
I am not linking to Jen this week, because I want to post this now before I wake up and realize it's probably a bad idea.