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Reading: Christopher Hitchens' article in the current
Vanity Fair on the absurd lengths various state and
local governments are going to
to ban smoking. Amen, Hitch.
Watching: The most fascinating Nightline on the human genome project. Did you know that 50% of the genetic code of a banana is exactly the same as ours? And that the genetic difference between the tallest Norwegian and the shortest pygmy is one-tenth of one percent? This stuff is amazing to me. Seeing: Bridget Jones's Diary. Fan-fucking-tastic. Everyone was perfect, and hilarious, and I cannot wait to see it again. Favorite scene: the Birthday. From beginning to fabulous end. (By the way, anyone who thinks Renee Zellweger is the slightest bit overweight in this movie should be shot. That's all.) Listening: Born, by Bond, a string quartet made up of four gorgeous twenty-something women, and the music is cool too. (Not recommended for classical purists, however -- I have a feeling you'd hate it.) Laughing: At the McDonald's cashier who, after taking my order, which consisted of one large Diet Coke, asked me, "For here or to go?" (I must admit, I was dumbfounded by this question to the point where I couldn't answer. I just stood there, thinking, huh?) It was bound to happen: I went to Target this morning wearing one of my law school orientation t-shirts, with PSU-DSL in the corner. As this woman and I joined forces to wrench apart two carts at the entrance, she asked if the PSU was for Pittsburg State, a college here in Kansas. (No 'h' on the end of ours. We have a Manhattan, too, don't you know.) I said no, it was for Penn State, and the DSL was my law school. "Oh, are you are a lawyer?" "Yeah." "Okay, I'm in this custody battle with my ex-husband..."
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It is shortly after 9:00 on Saturday night. It is thunderstorming outside, our first good one of the season. The winds are echoing in my chimney and occasional bursts of rain slam sideways against my balcony doors. The cat is crouched under one of my living room tables (I don't have a regular coffee table, I have three nesting tables that travel around my living room as needed) staring at the fireplace as though monsters are about to emerge. And for the first time in quite a while, I don't feel like I might just actually be going crazy.
 Okay. I started therapy this week, on Friday to be exact, and I realized one thing, which is that it's very difficult to go back to work after spending an hour spilling your entire guts, which is basically what I did. See, I wasn't entirely honest with my last therapist. I didn't lie, of course, but I denied that certain things were bothering me when they really were, glossed over things with a "Oh, it's going fine" and a wave of my hand. Those sessions served their purpose, though. I started going to therapy in Pennsylvania because my distractedness had reached such a level that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to do what it would take to pass the bar. But anyway. I finally called the little Employee Assistance Program phone number a couple of weeks ago, after I had begun to realize that there are issues in my life that I have avoided and ignored for far too long. And I knew that if I had any hope of fixing them, I was going to have to be totally up front, about everything. Believe it or not, in the week and a half between the day I actually made the appointment and the day it happened, I had started to make a list, afraid that I would forget everything I wanted to discuss. So I trotted into the therapist's office at 1:30 on Friday afternoon and emptied the entire contents of my head at this woman's feet. At the end of the session, when she asked what I wanted to accomplish, I pointed at the pile on the floor and said, "I want to fix all of this." (Dora: Remember a couple of weeks ago, when Danny burst into Abby's office and said, enough of this, just fix me? That is exactly how I felt.) And then I cried in the car the whole way back to the office, completely exhausted and relieved and bereft. I had shown this woman absolutely everything, and she didn't bat an eye. (Although I hope no therapist ever says, "Wow, I've never heard of that before!") She didn't tell me I was hopeless. and she didn't call the men in little white coats to come and get me.
Now. I want to tell you what she did tell me, and I know what your reaction is going to be because it is the same reaction I would have had not too long ago. You're going to roll your eyes and shake your head and say, "Yeah, yeah, affliction of the month." I've even joked about it in here. ADD. I know, I know, it sounds stupid. It sounds like a cop-out for people who choose to goof off rather than do whatever they are supposed to be doing. But I've done some reading about it, and some of the descriptions (you'll laugh if I call them symptoms, right?) struck me to the bone. I'll try to give you an example. I got home from the store this afternoon, unpacked my groceries, then sat on the couch in my living room trying to decide what to do next. What I wanted to do was read my new Vanity Fair, read my new Entertainment Weekly, do some laundry, read the first Prydain book, read the book Athena sent me, read the Alice Hoffman book I got in the mail because I had apparently overpaid the Literary Guild, watch the Buffy tapes Dora sent me, do my state taxes, watch Eddie, make fajitas, and go shopping for a vacuum cleaner. And I wanted to do all of these things equally, and I wanted to do them all, right at that moment. If I could have done them all at the same time, I would have. I'm not explaining it very well, but I don't know if I can convey how utterly overwhelmed I was. Instead of calmly sitting there and sorting through my options, I avoided it all and went to bed for a couple of hours. Okay. Everything you're thinking to yourself right now, I know. I've thought it too, and before recently, before I started feeling like I was rapidly losing my grip, I would have absolutely agreed with you. It's dumb, and crazy. And I probably wouldn't worry about it -- I mean, I should be thankful to be so lucky as to have such a wide range of ways to spend my Saturday afternoon -- except that it's starting to affect my work. My day Thursday was easily the most miserable day I have had at this job so far, and it had nothing to do with anyone else. I hadn't done anything wrong, I hadn't forgotten anything, no one was angry with me. I was just under the gun. An associate had been on vacation last week, but is leaving Monday at noon to go to New York for a deposition. I had to update the depo materials and leave them on her desk by the time I left on Friday, since she was coming in Saturday to look them over. My officemate was out of town, so I had the office to myself. An ideal working environment. And yet I got nothing done. I felt exactly as I had almost two years ago, during the spring semester exam period of my second year, the week and a half of distracted misery that prompted me to start therapy in the first place. I knew that Friday afternoon was going to be useless, as I was going to the therapy appointment and then leaving early for a matinee of Bridget Jones's Diary. (Yes, I didn't have to go to the movie, but it's not really the point as I had to go back to the office anyway.) Plus, I needed to get all my bar exam application crap together, including getting my signature notarized and other random loose ends. I can't even tell you what I did all day. I obsessively checked my e-mail, but I do that all the time anyway, even when I'm being productive. I didn't surf or read journals. I spent a total of fifteen minutes looking up wedding-related information for Elise. I spent a total of perhaps an hour writing e-mail to other people. For the other seven and a half hours I was at work, I have no idea. I did get some actual work done, but no more than two, maybe two and a half hours' worth. And it was miserable. I would sit there and say, "Okay, you are going to work on this for one solid hour, and then you can check your e-mail again," and after about three minutes I would suddenly have to get a drink or go to the bathroom or change the CD. This isn't right. It isn't normal. I am an intelligent person. I know how to do my job and I know how to do it right. But the enormity of the project, coupled with my bar application, coupled with some prior engagements that everyone else would have planned for, completely shut me down. And that isn't right, either.
So, I'm going to have a psychiatric evaluation, which, to be honest, sounds kind of scary and kind of cool all at the same time. And maybe we'll find out a little bit about what is going on in my head, what can be done about it. The truth is, I only get five therapy sessions per "incident" on my insurance, so I would have to get some kind of medical diagnosis to get them to keep paying for it. And even though whatever level of ADD I might or might not have isn't the source of all my problems, if it's enough to keep me from having to pay for therapy out of my pocket, I'll be all over it. So, I'm back, for the time being, and no longer worried about being boring. I'm going in for a psychiatric evaluation, for crying out loud. How boring can that be?
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