This morning, against my better judgement, I got up at the ungodly hour of 8:45. I know, how did I manage to hoist my delicate ass out of my lovely bed to the harsh reality of life with 3 (minus one today) children before plopping my butt down in front of my laptop? The things I endure, I tell you.

Well, despite my mango-vodka-flavored drinky-poo last night, I woke up refreshed, bright eyed and bushy-tailed and veritably bounded into the office of my new shrink. Being a (retired) medical professional myself, I knew that my first visit would involve a whole lotta observations of my behavior.

Did The Patient scratch herself too much? Did The Patient blink her left eye more quickly than her right? Does The Patient look like she engages in self-care activity (not, for those of you playing along at home, involving dildos)? Is The Patient trying to mount my desk AGAIN?


I don’t mean to make light of the situation,* but when you have streak of mental illness and alcoholism sixteen miles wide running through your family, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to try and chuckle. Or at least, in my case, be very careful to remember that while giving your (sorted) medical history, it’s probably not wise to grab the red Sharpee on the desk and run around the room screaming about the eyes in the ceilings that watch us aaaalllllll!!

You should be pleased to note that I kept both butt cheeks firmly planted on the chair.

As part of the general information that he was gathering for me, I took this…test thing. I got pretty excited because I enjoy taking tests, until I looked at it more closely. It was a whole lot of questions to be answered in a true/false manner. I fucking hate true/false tests.

I was suitably confused.

I feel like I am a special person who deserves special things.

Well, DUH. I thought Mr. Rogers spent most of my early childhood telling me that we were all special rainbow snowflake droplets. Obviously TRUE.

I have travelled to Africa seventy times this past week.


I have been on 37 magazine covers.

Who hasn’t?

I have homicidal thoughts.

How often is often enough to mark True?

I’m much better at essay questions, as you can no doubt guess, considering how frequently I pollute The Internet with my pointless drivel. I always want to qualify my answers in these questions. Am I always in the middle of things at parties? Well, what kind of parties are we discussing? Because if it’s a Sausage Fest, you better believe I am. But in the middle of a comic book convention? You’ll find me crawling the walls, looking for an escape route.

The rest of the questions were pretty mundane. It appears that I do have a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress disorder and that I am ridiculously confident. Neither of these statements shocks me much.

What shocked me more than anything else is that this is all that appears to be wrong with me.

For 28 (29 next month. HOORAY for ALMOST 30!) years, I have been waiting patiently for the day that I wake up and do not go back to sleep for 4 days. For the day that I decided that 5 years old is old enough for my kid to fend for him/herself and lock myself in my room with a bottle of booze and a script of valium. For the day when I am so full of energy that I repaint the entire outside of my house with a toothbrush and my tongue between the hours of 1 and 3 AM one idle Thursday.

It’s never come, but I’ve waited.

Apparently, Amelia isn’t the only person in this house who has been diagnosed Completely Normal**.

Now, thankfully, I can focus my attentions on more fascinating pursuits. Like wondering if I should really make a shirt that says “I’m Friends With Heather Spohr” and if it’s more PC to call BlogHer “Beaver Fest 2009” or “Vagina Stock 2009”?

The jury remains out on all counts.

*I totally mean to make light of any situation, because hey, if you can laugh your way through having to collect your poo in a bucket, you can laugh at anything.

**When you’re used to dealing with people who routinely bathe the floor with their tongue and are convinced that they are pregnant with Jesus’s baby, “normal” is relative.

37 thoughts on “Shrink, Shrank, Shrunk

  1. I’m so glad that @busybiddy recommended you on Twitter! I love reading your updates, and your blog is phenomenal! I love your humor and your writing style. I’ll be voting for you for sure! 🙂

  2. Pingback: Shrink, Shrank, Shrunk
  3. Can you send me a post card from Normal town? I’m not sure I’ve been there before. And I KNOW a few of my friends don’t even think it’s exists! If I have been there, is was dreadfully boring and I made up some excitement with acting like a crazy person. That’s not bad, is it?

  4. Pingback: Shrink, Shrank, Shrunk
  5. Oh trust me….you are definitely crazy. You just manifest it in a socially acceptable kind of way!

    Congrats on your diagnosis. Make sure you get a framed certificate, so that the next time you have an argument with the Daver and he tells you that you’re crazy, you can say “Not so, Mr. I have proof. Where’s yours????”

    You should just make all the t-shirts and see what sells the best.

  6. That’s funny. I’ve always thought I’d be descending into madness any second too. Well, last summer I sort of did but I am okay now. Really! I am! Ask anyone!
    Becky, you are totally winning that blog thing.

  7. About the voting: I’m happy you’re reminding me, because I can’t remember things, and I’d like to see you win. And: There has to be a better way to arrange those things; I always scroll past it and then have to try again to find it. And: I’ve been to CakeWrecks, and it’s funny, but not that funny. I mean, I clearly have a fantastic sense of humor, and I keep you in my Reader and not them. So screw them and their cakes.

    I hate those tests too. I’m always afraid I’m going to either end up with “it’s all in your head–you’re delusional in a way that means you’re actually fine” or “bring out the straightjacket.” I also always want to quantify my answers and sometimes do.

    Forgive me, but PTSD? I understand that growing up with a mentally ill mother is no cakewalk, and I don’t mean to blow that off. But I sort of always thought there had to be a single traumatic incident, recently, that would lead to PTSD. My sister-in-law is suffering from some early dementia and was diagnosed (we’re not sure correctly) with PTSD and anxiety, so I’m feeling very confused about the whole diagnosis.

    I like Beaver Fest. Plus you could have adorable T-shirts!

  8. With two half-sisters that are bipolar, I too have wondered when I’d started wearing all the clothes in my closet at once and cut off my hair because I think snakes are coming out of my head. To comfort myself, I blame it on the father that I don’t share with them.

  9. Normal! Whew!

    LMAO at “Beaver Fest 2009.”

    I love you and your blog, Aunt Becky. Hope you sweep the category!

    Oh, 8:45 sounds lovely. Oscar had me up at 6:00. Sigh.

  10. i like beaver fest. because then? you can totally make shirts that say “i got beaver fever at beaver fest ’09”.

    i don’t really know what that means, but i am pretty sure they’s sell really well.

  11. 8:45 in the morning and they couldn’t find ANYTHING wrong?! Did you at least request some vicodin for your troubles? And could you airmail them to me? Like now?

  12. baaaaaaaaaaahahahhahahahaha….

    and just for the record- don’t mock the toothbrush thing man!! It TOTALLY works when you feel like you’re on uppers that have their own uppers and haven’t slept in like, four days…

    Just don’t ask me how I know these things.. teehee…

    Glad to hear you’re *normal*!

  13. Ok, normal girl… an we PLEASE get back to Alli, butt seepage alert status, and weight loss? I am dying to know your take on the whole pill thing.

    Hey, maybe the Alli pills influenced your answers on that test…. (just kidding)

  14. Oh Aunt Becky, thank you for reminding me that I am a special rainbow snowflake droplet. Now when some penile challenged a-hole trys to harsh my gig, I can tell him to “Step off because I am a special rainbow snowflake droplet. You erectile dysfunctional effer.”

  15. While I like the idea of Beaver Fest on paper, I’m thinking it’ll probably be more like a Whine and cheese party in reality…

    p.s. don’t trust anyone that can diagnose you with a simple true/false test. Or maybe that’s my paranoia speaking.

  16. I’m only voting for you because you’re totally kicking my ass, and this why I can be all “I don’t even
    CARE!” Also because I love you. Congrats on being sane. What’s it like?

  17. I’ve always thought that losing my mind would be somewhat relieving, like a vacation, I don’t know why. I’m sure it would be anything but. It just seems like the release from all responsibility.

    Glad to know you aren’t totally bajonkers.

  18. Hilarious as always, my dear!

    And yes, I voted. Again. With all my email addresses. As always. I missed out on Friday, because I wasn’t at work….but got it back in today. 🙂

  19. Hmm… Did I ever tell you the story of the two very well known shrinks that were getting a divorce and the unbelievable tales of insanity that came out during their depositions? The two were bat-shit crazy and on more drugs than a couple of junkies laying in an alley.

    Or there was the shink that’s on TV all the time whose mansion that we went to for his expert deposition screamed HOARDER!!!! In other words, my dear, I’m sure you are normal!

    I’m thinking Gash Bash 2009 or Pussypalooza 2009.

  20. I LOVED those questions!! That’s an hour of my life I can never get back!! And was it just me or did they ask the same question like 4 times in just enough of a way they could call it a different question but really it was the same question.

    I sometimes hear voices….

    Aliens are following me….

    I think I sent like 10 of them over text to my friends while I was taking the test. Does that make me crazy or sane enough to know the questions were crazy?? 🙂

  21. Awesome. I thought I was the only one who made sure not to click the pen too many times or touch my face too often when talking to the shrinking class.

    And those questions. I couldn’t finish the thing. I think that helped them diagnose the depression. Seriously, it was hard enough to walk in the door.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *