• Group Therapy

    I studied phycology psychology at UF with the aim of becoming a counselor, in one form or another. I did some counseling on my first job after graduation. I spent a chunk of my time and an awful lot of my parent’s money on the idea that counseling, phycological therapy, and talking works.

    A small part of me finds it funny that it never seems to work for me, when I need it.

    We went to a support group for the first time last night and it was awful. The point is ultimately to feel better, but I felt much worse. Everyone didn’t get a chance to speak. There was nothing orderly about it. It was more like a cage match on pay-per-view (not that I’ve ever seen one, mind you), where someone rings a bell and everyone jumps in at once, fighting to be the last one standing.

    I did learn something though. I could have it much worse. Well, maybe “learn” isn’t quite the right word. I knew already. It was just reinforced… over and over again. Well, maybe “reinforced” isn’t quite the right word. It was really more like I was beaten over the head with it.

    Sometimes folks can take a little comfort knowing things can be worse, but I don’t tend to be one of those people (not always, anyway). It feels a little distasteful, finding comfort in someone else’s suffering. Worse, my flirtation with anxiety disorder can heat up in these circumstances.

    It can get worse? Really? It’s bad enough now, what would I do if it got worse? Fuck me… what if my life was like yours?

  • The sleep affair

    I love sleeping in on the weekend. Who doesn’t? It would be un-American.

    I opened my eyes, noticed light was coming in through the window, and luxuriated in the feeling of a Saturday just getting started. No plans, that my sleep-fogged mind could recall. It was the ultimate “living in the moment” moment. Bed, blanket, pillow… all my best friends were there. I heard Beth through the closed door, asking Cheryl about a mug.

    What a wife! She’s up, in a bit of pain, letting me sleep in… take a break.

    I’m filled with love.

    The fog starts to recede.

    Is it really Saturday? Am I really free?

    The fog doesn’t go away, but it slides away in all the wrong places. I remember leaving work with a headache. I remember laying down in bed with the shades drawn and hoping for sleep.

    It’s not Saturday morning. It’s late Tuesday afternoon.

    Curses!

    Alright, so it’s not Saturday. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. That’s something.

  • Is it getting lighter in here?

    There’s a chance you won’t like me a few sentences from now.

    I’ve lost almost 40 pounds this year, but I haven’t been trying.

    Some of you know I have regular blood tests – and not because you’re my doctor. One day I may regret speaking so openly about myself. So much for my dream of one day being named ambassdor to Iceland. Although they’ve always given me a clean bill on the cancer front, they’re setting off klaxons on the metabolism front. Alright, it’s really not that bad, but I like the word klaxon.

    Red meats are off the menu, as are many sugars and starches. I carefully track the foods I eat on a dandy little app on my phone. That’s how I know. Eight pm rolls around and I’m often WAY under my recommended calorie intake for the day. Many nights I’m breaking out the snacks just to get within a couple hundred calories of where I should be. And I’m not hungry.

    I’m not starving myself. I eat little (healthy) snacks throughout the day. My doctor was surprised by my weight loss, but not alarmed, so maybe I shouldn’t worry. But 40 pounds? My weight got a little out of control after I got out of the hospital two years ago, but I wasn’t close to obese. Now twenty percent of my body is gone. What if there was something in that fifth I liked?

    I’m going to need more reassurance from my doctor the next time I see her. Don’t get me started with the insurance problems I’m having with my oncologist. I’ve cancelled my last two appointments waiting for the contract to be finalized between my insurance company and his new practice. Cheryl’s gonna have a nervous breakdown and order me to pay the damn bill as a self-pay patient.

    Oops! I guess I got started.

    People who know my history come up to me with concern in their eyes. “Are you ok? You look like you’ve lost a lot of weight.” I’m not sure how to answer. Do I tell them the truth? “I think I’m ok, and I appretiate the concern and all, but you’re freaking me out a little.”