Crazy no more

Thank you, thank you, for your very helpful comments on my anxiety post. Who knew we were such a crazy lot? I never thought I was alone in this, but I certainly had no idea so many of you have experienced anxiety and depression. Thank you for taking the time to tell me about it.

Though my doctor's appointment was over a week ago, I felt there needed to be some distance between it and this post. The treatment suggested was so profound, so groundbreaking, that I needed time to digest it. What is this newfangled way of dealing with anxiety? you all clamor to say. I am wary of telling you, lest you decide to pursue this pathway to happiness yourself and frankly I want this to be mine, all mine.

Ok, I'll tell you. You have all been there for me during my many periods of mental instability, so it's the least I can do. The cure to all of my ills - the late nights spent panicking over the deaths of me and my family, throwing up from worry, insomnia, Nyquil on tap, is...a book. More specifically, this book. This, my friends, is the anxious person's Holy Grail. The answers we have been looking for are right.here.

I went to the GP with the best of intentions. I was going to be honest, and try very hard to not turn into a crying heap of unbrushed hair and unkempt clothing. I was vastly unsuccessful, instead favouring the breakdown and crying-until-you-cannot-form-words route. I gushed about all of it, the overwhelming concerns over my own health, inability to eat and sleep, and the crippling pall which hangs over my life almost every day. Once I gathered myself I thought for sure the GP was thinking, "Bitch is crazy. Medicate! Medicate!" Alas, she was unfazed by my insanity and thought a little bit of book learnin' would not be remiss.

I nearly choked on the phlegm which seems permanently lodged in my throat when she told me that she does not like to prescribe medication, but prefers less mind-altering methods. You know, like reading a goddamn book. I really thought she was kidding at first. I was hoping. I was written a prescription. A "book" prescription. No, really. She has a prescription pad just like the real deal, but it is labeled as a book prescription. You take it to your friendly neighbourhood library, and they get your crazy ass said book. It's just that easy. Not to mention the ease with which I can read books, having an 8 month old and all. Ask my Innard Twin, I've had one of her books for near on two years. One of these days, one of these days...

I was furious when I got home, choosing to shut myself in the kitchen to scream, throw things, and cry. Poor P. was in the lounge on her playmat, rather unsure what to do. Once I managed to almost compose myself, I sat down next to her and apologised for being a fucking dweeby nutjob. Ok, I left the nasty eff word out of it, but I did tell her that Mama was very sorry for not being stronger for her. P. looked at me with her huge, blue doe eyes and gave me a gummy smile, which of course made me cry even more.

I emailed The Dude at work to tell him how the appointment went, perhaps going a bit overboard on exclamation points and fully-capitalised words. I told him the GP recommended reading a book, and I was pleased to see upon his return email that he was as appalled as I. Trouble is, the dumbass thought I meant any book. As if the GP listened patiently for 20 minutes, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Have you tried reading a book? A work of fiction, or perhaps a Physics textbook? Whatever floats your boat."

It's been a week and a couple of days and I'm on page 12. I'm trying my very best to be...what is it called...umm...oh yeah, optimistic about the book. This, despite the flow charts on almost every page which are deep evaluations such as: Anxiety ---> Physical Reaction ---> Illness & Positive Thoughts ---> Coping Skills ---> Shiny Happy People.

Dear God help me.