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?
LOCK THAT CRAZY BITCH UP!
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.
OF COURSE I HAVE. TRUE, TRUE, TRUE.
I have been on 37 magazine covers.
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.