Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
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Not Therapist-Worthy

Each day finds me deeper in some sort of funk. No, no, it's nothing to do with Violet or postpartum depression or any of that. At least I don't think so, anyway. Violet feels like the only bright spot in a world of gray. I can't put my finger on exactly what's causing the funk. Honestly, it feels like the usual kind of depression I often suffer from: general malaise and the whole what's-the-point-of-doing-these-dishes/laundry-etc-if-they're-just-going-to-get-dirty-again? Perhaps it's because January and February absolutely suck harder than a whore on the job. There are other items I can pinpoint that are dragging me down but I'd rather not detail them here. Oh well, okay, fuck it. Serge and I aren't exactly at a high point in our relationship. Which is actually quite weird because when Violet was born I don't think I could have loved him more. I need to sit quietly and figure out what is bothering me. Can it really be the trivial bullshit I nag him about? Likely that is symptomatic of deeper issues. Or I am insane from sleep deprivation. But sitting quietly and thinking seems like too much work. And if I do wrap my brain around why I want to stab him then there's all the talking about the issues... So much work... Like I said, malaise.

After balking for years I finally called the therapist my doctor recommended to me more than a year ago. It took tremendous effort for me to do so because I have not wanted to indulge in therapy. Because that's what it seems like to me; an indulgence. A post-modern, selfish, indulgence for folks who want to whine about their shitty childhoods, blame others for their problems and talk about themselves. Hold on a minute! Cool your jets! I also see the benefits of therapy, which is why I finally called the therapist today. So she calls me back and not 30 seconds into the call she tells me she doesn't like my insurance provider, recommends I call one of her colleagues and gives me the name of another therapist. I call her. She calls back and tells me she isn't taking new clients and recommends the name of a male colleague. I hang up and promptly burst into tears. All the rejection. Therapist rejection. Trying to get in to see a therapist is making me need therapy.

Anyway, I don't want to see a male therapist. Don't know why. Just don't. Same reason I didn't want a male gynecologist, I guess. Don't need some dude elbow-deep in my vagina or my brain. Maybe my therapist, if one ever decides I'm therapist-worthy, can analyze my desire for a female therapist. To add to the difficulty of finding just the right person I do not want a Mormon therapist. Why not a Mormon therapist? Because I don't need someone viewing my problems through their religious filter. And I swear like a drunk sailor. I'll constantly feel judged and not be able to be myself. Also, Mormonism is likely at the root of many of my issues. As a result I've given up the therapist search just now.

I hate feeling depressed. Don't like to even admit I feel down because even that seems self-indulgent. All woe is me and shit. Because, you know, there are starving kids in Africa or whatever and I'm here with my cable, internet and SUV all bummed out about some random funk I can't put my finger on.