graceland's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Well, I haven't bitten anyone's cheek I went back to work today, with bruises down my throat/esophogus from under my chin to close to my collarbone. People thought it looked like someone tried to strangle me. By the end of the day, the clot that had formed in the back of my mouth had broken and I came home with gauze shoved in my cheek and sat down on the couch with my head tilted back. The only other worthwhile news is that I reached out to the therapist a friend was kind enough to recommend and left her a message asking for a referral. The therapist was kind enough to call me back, maybe it was something in my voice, and speak with me about what I'm looking for. I wish that she wasn't so inconveniently located because I really liked her and I think I would like to see her. We spoke for some time and found myself telling her what's been going on, what I need help with and what didn't work with the last professional I saw. As we ended our conversation, I thanked her in my professional tone for her time/assistance two or three times, she paused for moment and I sensed that she surprised herself as much as she surprised me, when she said, "you know, if you want to call me again...talk to me about your thoughts...or when you meet with these professionals that I recommended and other questions you may have..or if you decide they aren't a fit for you...I'd be happy to talk to you again at any time." It's something in my approach I think. It makes doctors wonder, about someone so calm and so organized whose seams are bursting. Or maybe it helps them figure me out. When I went to the cardiologist/internist last week I had assembled a dosier of information from the hospital paperwork and test results to personal written documentation that dated, timed and recorded many of the symptoms I had experienced with each attack. And included hand-drawn front and back human body sketches with X's marking exactly where the pain struck on the front and back versions of my body. Both of the doctors smiled when I handed them the bundles of information and I began to walk them through my assessment, using my pen as a pointer. As I would at work, as I review feedback on documents with the staff I manage. Or as I do when I guest teach a college course sometimes or lecture a group at one of my speaking engagements. I am. professional. Yet familiar. I am the anti-professional professional. I'm nothing if not thorough and organized. In fact, it's some of this organization that is leading me to believe that I am having a nervous breakdown. (What exactly is a nervous breakdown? How you know when you are "officially" having one? Is it that you DON'T recognize that you've lost it?) Growing up, I used to be really messy and disorganized. Funny enough, when I was like that, I was happy. Carefee. My parents weren't happy. They were always pushing me to be tidier and more organized. Now I'm organized and insane. So that worked out well. I can't wait to get in therapy and completely lose my shit. 9:55 p.m. - 2006-05-09 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||