Today was my 8 month anniversary with Gail, my mental health professional. Eight whole months. Sheesh...you'd think I'd have it together by now. Or at least be on some mind-numbing medication. But no...still a nut job and still handling it on my own.
And oh, what a week it's been. Usually, Gail, my mental health professional, and I chat for exactly one hour about twice a month. Lately, there have been some long stretches in there because of (what else?) child care issues. In fact, really the ONLY reason I can see Gail, my mental health professional, at all is because she has Saturday appointments every 2 weeks. She also agreed to see me for $60 a pop before Drew was hired permanently and before we had "mental health" insurance coverage.
Way back in July, I was suffering from a bad case of what I like to call FMS or Frantic Mom Syndrome. Gail, my mental health professional likes to call it Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I wish it had a nicer name that didn't include the word "disorder" in it, but whatever. She's the mental health professional. Basically, it's a three-word description for that completely scattered/overwhelmed/worried/manic thing that I'm pretty sure most mothers feel most of the day (the ones who aren't sobbing/weepy/catatonic/hopeless). My "disorder" felt frenetic and I was having a really hard time knowing how to shut it off. I was having dreams that my final exam in calculus was coming up and I couldn't remember the combination to my locker to get my book so I could quickly try to learn calculus. Even in my sleep, it continued.
Well, next thing you know, Drew and his family decide that after years of competing with the Cunninghams, the Cleavers, and the Bradys for Happiest Godamn Family of the Year Award, they'd take this opportunity, the same damn month I'm having my own little mental breakdown, to start dealing with their issues. They thought this was the perfect time to start delving into the dark parent/sibling corners and with all the issues no one talks about in families (all the regular family relationship shit the rest of us are steadily trying to ignore or deny.) So, my appointments with Gail, my mental health professional became Drew's appointments with Gail, my mental health professional. Drew and I have always held onto the philosophy that only one of us can be mentally unbalanced at a time. So, I held it together knowing my turn to be insane was right around the corner.
By the time it got back to me, I was trying to remember where I was or what the problem is. My FMS has subsided a great deal, certainly. I must say, blogging has helped-having an outlet. But I've also made a concerted effort to get myself back on the list of important people in this family. In retrospect, that's what had happened around here. I had fallen off the list completely. I think it's so easy, especially if you don't have another job to go to every day. Given where we live and the fact that BoyChild hadn't started school yet, I was in this house all day everyday with nowhere to go and nothing to do and with nothing happening for days and weeks and months on end. It's no wonder I was a bit "touched."
So, today I sat on "the couch" and was trying to think of something to talk about with Gail, my mental health professional. The conversation started going where it always goes--I told her how this morning I woke up, got dressed, put on lip gloss, put on real clothes that snap and zip (not yoga pants and a t-shirt). I listened to real music in the car. I stopped and got myself a $4 coffee. I was a normal person for a few hours. I felt good. And I felt guilty about it. Here it was, a beautiful Saturday morning and Drew was home with the kids and I was gone--again. I'm either too entrenched or I'm missing.
And here's what she told me...
Even Jesus needed time to refuel. It is that sacred. People would go to him and say, "Hey...what about those folks over there? What are you gonna do for them?" And Jesus would say, "Nope...I gotta stay right here and pray right now. I'll get back to you when I'm done. "
I understand that Christ wasn't out getting his hair highlighted or shopping for a new pair of shoes. And I'm sure he'd think $4 was way too much for a Grande Iced Decaf Caramel Macchiato, but I got what Gail, my mental health professional was saying. If it's good enough for the J-man, it's good enough for me.