Those of you who know me well and love me anyway have probably noticed that I’ve been exceptionally cranky lately. Really, it’s true. I know it sounds crazy. I’ve posted pictures instead of words here … and I’ve not commented much on your blogs. I’ve been in a slow-burning, semi-controlled rage for about two weeks now.
I’m not sure what actually sparked it, but … I think it’s over. I’ve mentioned the decisions I need to make – but I can’t make them if I don’t pass this f*#$%ing Java class. Yes, I said f*#$%ing. The class is (finally) over a week from Sunday. The thing is, even if I pass it … I don’t really understand it. Maybe that shouldn’t bother me (because I think I will pass, after all), but it does. I like to understand things.
I have to figure out if I want to continue in the Bachelor’s program or stop with a two-year degree that will help me get a better job (and took 27 months to get). I don’t know. I also don’t know where that job is … with my company or somewhere else. I don’t know if it’s networking or DBA or what. I’m pretty certain I won’t be employed as a Java programmer, though.
The thing at the bar on Friday really bothered me – more than I think my post showed. Not that I care if some geezer wants to hit on me. But the whole situation bothered me.
It made me think of Kendra. Oops. I wasn’t supposed to use her name, was I? I actually called her K … so calling her Kendra is my way of distancing myself even more. She used to call me Cappie. She never, ever used my real name. That bothered me. I never told her it bothered me. And I suppose that never using my real name and my never telling her it bothered me is a great big metaphor for our entire relationship, such as it was. When these classes are over, I will have a short break before the last one (!) begins. I plan on using part of that time to revamp my profile on match.com and attract a date. And I plan on going out – and going to places that super drunk, 63-year-old widowers will not be. I’m too young to be so alone.
I made an appointment to see a new therapist last week. I haven’t been in therapy in a long time … and because I had such a hair-trigger and was so pissed off, I thought maybe I should seek some help in combating my evil moods and in making some of the decisions I am facing.
The receptionist told me I could come by and grab the paperwork, fill it out at home and bring it in before my appointment. That way, I wouldn’t have to sit there and fill out a bunch of forms. Yay. Smart receptionist. I stopped by, no one was there, so I took the stapled-together forms off a clipboard, took them home and filled them out. The next day I arrived 5 minutes early for my appointment. There was a note on the clipboard telling me to fill it all out and that the therapist would be right with me.
Right. I waited 20 minutes. Which, because I have a negative balance of patience right now, is a fucking lifetime. The waiting room got smaller and smaller with each passing minute. I kept thinking about the homework I wasn’t doing (and don’t understand anyway). I wondered how I was going to pay for it (because I have crappy insurance). I imagined her telling me I need to be on medication (which I will not do. Ever). And I remembered the last therapist telling me I was ambivalent about therapy. I recalled my reply, “Well, I guess that’s possible. I don’t know, maybe. No, I don’t think so.”
And so I left.
I justified it by telling myself that the therapist had just wasted 20 minutes of my time. I debated leaving a note that said she owed me $60.
*If you know this song without looking it up, you are my hero. If you don’t know it and take the time to look it up, you are worthy.