Sometimes I really hate my psychiatrist. She’s extremely intelligent, sees me for free and doesn’t buy most of my bullshit. For the most part, as kind of a crazy person, I couldn’t ask for any better.
On the other hand, she’s capable of cursing me with great misfortune. She never predicts good things happening, but when she predicts bad things, the woman is Nostradamus with boobs.
I saw her in late June, and she asked me if I was anxious for July. I had no idea why I should be anxious for anything in July, but thinking there was something terrible I was forgetting to be anxious for in July made me very anxious for July.
As she reminded me, July of last year was when my vagina exploded. It was a very traumatic event, as was the resulting surgery. Within months I lost my job, and then my ability to walk properly until March.
I was unemployed for half a year – and it all started with that one traumatic event, which was so closely related to anther traumatic event that I pretended didn’t happen for years. The last year of my life would have left most people straight-jacketed.
Therefore, was I not anxious for July?
I assured her that I was not anxious. Rather, I am peachy. Totally, wholeheartedly, peachy.
PEACHY.
I’m happy in my new job, and no longer think I’m going to be fired every time my boss calls. I more expect it will happen through an email inviting me to the Vancouver office for a meeting.
While I wish I could say that I hardly think about my vagina exploding, or all that blood, or the tiny drops of blood spatter I’m still finding on my baseboards, or the pain, or the fear, or the irrational belief I will need a colostomy bag should I ever have sex again, I can at least say I breathe slightly more often than I remember the gory details.
In fact, I hardly remember the horror of it at all, unless I’m thinking about sex, which is only every three minutes or so on days considered part of the week.
(My resistance to physical or sexual contact has actually put my shrink in a hilariously difficult position. I know she thinks it would be healthier if I would just fuck somebody and get it over with, for the love of God. Naturally a stranger would be out of the question, and meeting a good guy, falling in love and starting a healthy relationship is about as likely as developing super powers. Therefore, I watch her struggle between guiding me in the direction of Alex or the firefighter - two men she considers the third and fourth horsemen of the apocalypse respectively, and my attraction to both a definite sign I need psychological help. The way her jaw clenches when she realizes I’ll remain celibate and fearful for years or take one of these two to bed suggests the age-old question – shit or diarrhea.)
During my last visit in July, she tried a different tactic. Didn't I think it was interesting that I've chosen two men who for varying reasons are unavailable to me, and therefore sexual intercourse isn't even an option?
No, no I don't think it's interesting. I made the decision not to sleep with Alex years ago, when I realized he's been inside more vagina than Tampax, his current girlfriend notwithstanding, and the firefighter's wife declared me a hazard last July because of all that had happened to me, and accused me of putting him in "danger" because I didn't know and failed to disclose I was "damaged." Much like the entire town of Chernobyl, my lower half has been off limits to him since everything blew to hell.
(Luckily, we've kept up a connection through intensive and lust-driven text messaging. My iPhone has officially had more orgasms than I ever have in my entire life.)
Choice has very little to do with anything anymore, but my psychiatrist clearly doesn't understand just how resilient I clearly am.
I explained all of this back in June, and she merely stared at me in in the dreaded silence that makes all patients want to bite their own ears.
On July 1st, I started sleepwalking. The only thing I hate more than my psychiatrist being right is me being so predictable.
Fortunately, it doesn’t happen every night. Three or four nights a week is manageable, and perfectly safe. It’s not like I’m waking up in the 24-hour Tim Hortons across the street in my tank top and granny underpants wondering how I got there and why I’m eating a chili when I prefer their lasagna casserole. I don’t do anything dangerous or exciting, but what I seem to be doing is fleeing. While asleep.
I’m mostly aware of what I’m doing, so I’m not in a full blackout. I wake up in a panic, swing my legs out of bed (a movement my current level of cripple still makes into an eight step maneuver), and start running. I’ve fled into my closet, which is ridiculous, because anybody who’s ever seen my closet knows it’s the place where free space goes to die.
I’ve made it to my front door only once, but fortunately wasn’t with it enough to unlock the door and deadbolt. I woke up with both hands pressed against the door, almost like I expected it to swing open so I could continue my flight from nothing to nowhere. I’m rather glad it didn’t. My neighbors already think I’m a nuisance due to my bylaw violating choice of curtains over blinds, so me running the hallways half naked probably wouldn't help my case.
My sleep being interrupted by random slow motion sprinting must really put me on edge. Some days I cry until I remember that I’m actually really angry. And then I cry some more. Other days I'm smiling because everything will likely work out in the end. Surely, my wildly swinging emotions must be related to sleep deprivation, and nothing else…right? Right.
Psychiatrist: 1
Bambi: 0
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