His Beautiful Mind?

[Walking to school.]

Mom, you forgot to put the Vaseline on my lips, and they were really hurting last night.

Did you tell me?

No.

Well, then how was I supposed to know. Do I live inside your head?

[Laughs.] No, but that would be really cool if you did.

[We have a conversation about why that might or might not be cool, having me be able to control him from inside his head. Then...]

Does anyone have someone that lives inside their head?

Well, that's a difficult question to answer, because there are some people who kind of feel like there are people in their heads in one way...in a way where they know those people aren't real. Like, writers can sometimes hear the characters speaking. I can do that sometimes when I'm writing. It helps me know what someone would or should say in a story. I may 'hear' someone talking to me, but I know that they're not real. They're not talking to me the way you're talking to me. And I can make them stop any time I want.

What about other people?

Well, there are other people who sometimes hear voices or think that there are people inside their heads who are telling them what to do, who they can't stop, and they can't do anything about. But most of the rest of the people in the world think that people like that might have something wrong in their brain, something that makes it difficult for them to stop those voices or realize they're not real. People think of that as a kind of mental illness.

But what is that called?

That's called schizophrenia.

And what do they do for that?

There are medications, and doctors will give those people different medications until the people say they can't hear the voices any more.

[No comment; he looks unhappy, agitated, waves his hand at his head.]

I don't want to talk about this anymore.

[Because by this time we'd gotten to the school and were surrounded by a large group of kids, I waited until we got to the top of the stairs to say anything more. Then I turned him around to face me, and got close to him.]

I'm wondering if the reason you look so upset about this is because of your imaginary friends.

[He nods slightly.]

Your imaginary friends are imaginary. You don't think that they're real. That's one of the reasons nobody's worried about your imaginary friends. Another reason nobody's worried about your imaginary friends is because, while sometimes they talk to you a lot, whenever you need to, you can make them stop. And they're not telling you to do bad things. And if they did, you'd still have a choice about whether you do them or not. So that's not what I was talking about. OK?

[Another slight nod.]

I'm door monitor today for my class, Mom. Bye!

[Did he buy what I was selling? I hope so. I can't swear, though.]

[And also? Really, Monday Morning? Really? THIS is what you hit me with, out of nowhere, from a kid with whom normal conversations go no deeper than how many police cars he saw that afternoon? You're mean, Monday Morning. Cruel. I don't like you very much today.]

The Anatomy of Stupidity

My weekends have become these insanely complicated machines. No...contraptions. Wacky contraptions, with too many moving parts and a jerry-rigged, overused, unreliable engine.

That engine? My brain.

Let me set the scene. It's Sunday. I've already navigated my crazy morning: the end-of-year presentation at Hebrew school, which required me to present on N's behalf after helping Em finish up and print out her "slides" the night before; the potluck following, for which I almost forgot to make egg salad, and so was up until close to 1 am peeling and mashing and mixing; the hand-off of Em to Baroy so she could make it to her afternoon soccer game while still getting something in her stomach. In a few hours I have a Pampered Chef show to go to, and I'm hoping my friend C will come with me; she's offered to let N and I hang at her house with her and her younger daughter for the couple of hours between events while her older daughter goes home with another friend; she says her husband will watch the kids while we go to the show.

And...action.

Oh, shoot. Not going home means I didn't get a chance to pick up my checkbook. How am I going to buy anything at this show?

Carol? Do you know if she'll take credit cards at this thing?

Hmm. Maybe I should get some cash, just in case.

Nah, I don't want to go by the bank; I don't know where a MyBank branch is, and the others charge so much money. How about a grocery store? I have stuff to pick up, and I can get cash there.

Perfect. There's a Ralph's right across the street. While you get OlderDaughter from Friend'sHouse, I'll run in and get some cash.

[I pick up my iPhone, turn it on.] Oh, shoot. My iPhone's really low on batteries. OK if I plug it in in your car? Thanks.

[We pull up in front of Ralph's; C suggests I leave the phone in her car so it will keep charging, since it's pretty much useless at this point. I go into the store.]

OK. I should pick up a couple of items before I get my cash. But what do I need? ... Oh, shit! My grocery list app is on my iPhone...and that's in C's car. ... Think. Think. Oh, right. Laundry detergent. I definitely need laundry detergent. But what else? I know there are at least three other items, but...I just can't remember. Damn, my brain is fried these days. How can I not remember anything that's on my shopping list? Must be stress.

[Next, I agonize over my laundry detergent purchase.]

I really want to go more 'natural,' but All Free and Clear is what I've been using since N was really young, and he tends to break when I use a new soap, and I'd hate to cause an issue. And which size bottle should I get? Isn't it cheaper at the Vons near my house? Maybe I'll just get the small All to tide me over until I can decide what to do about changing or not.

[I finally make a decision. Wondering whether C is already waiting--it's taken me a while to consider all the options, after all--I quickly pay and rush outside, just as she's pulling up. Perfect. I settle into the car and we take off. After saying hi to OlderDaughter, I immediately begin to babble.]

It was so funny, C. I left my iPhone in your car, and I couldn't figure out what was on my shopping list without it. My brain! Here I was, at the grocery story to pick up some things...and I couldn't figure out what I needed to get! Isn't that crazy?

What do you mean, that's not why I was there? I...

Oh, no. Oh my god.

Thank god the Pampered Chef lady took credit cards.

And that's all I have to say about that. Because that's all I can remember.

Fin.

I'm in a Mood

The reality is that there isn't a five-days-a-week-in-the-office job that would make me really happy.

The reality is that I'm not going anywhere any time soon.

The reality is that working from home didn't make me happy either.

The reality is that I'm apparently not especially easy to please.

The reality is that waiting for my life to be the way I want it to be means all I ever do is wait.

The reality is that I'm not even sure what waiting for my life to "be the way I want it to be" even means.

The reality is that I'm restless and distracted and ineffective.

The reality is that I have to learn to live within my reality, and that reality is here, now.

The reality is that I have no idea what that means, either.

Reality bites.

Hard Work

You know all those posts I haven't been writing? Here's why: Back in January, early January, N (finally, FINALLY) got his "official" M.D.-certified autism diagnosis (PDD, to be specific), with a nice little side order of Generalized Anxiety Disorder to go along with it.

And for some reason--some truthfully unfathomable reason--I've struggled with how to tell you about it.

Which is insane, since I've spent the last howevermany years I've been blogging talking about his differences, my deep-down knowledge that he's Not Like Other Kids, no matter what anyone has in the past or will in the future say about him. This was no shock. I've fought for this. Hard. Long. And hard. (It was really hard. So it bears repeating.) And I was...gosh, happy seems the wrong word. I felt hopeful. Vindicated. Not only because I knew for sure that we've been going in the right direction, but that now we might get some help from the outside, from others. I announced it on Twitter with exclamation marks and received congratulations. Lots of pats on the back. Go, warrior woman. Go, mama bear.

And so it's been a shock to find my fingers faltering every time I try to write about it here. Just like it was a shock when I got the official diagnosis letter and suddenly felt scared, and sad, and way less victorious than I'd been when we'd sat in the doctor's office and talked the words out loud, me saying, "Yes! Yes! That's what I've always thought." It wasn't like it was NEWS to me, for crying out loud. It was just a strongly worded missive to the school district that laid out the psychiatrist's concerns about N's future should he not receive adequate supports. And when I say strongly worded, I mean sledgehammer-slammed-onto-a-pinkie-toe strong. I mean OUCH, is what I mean. But it was nothing I didn't already know. It was nothing I hadn't already dreamed, tossed and turned over, cried about.

It was a good letter. And it worked. It worked really, really well.

It was, in fact, what led to me sitting dazed through not one but TWO three-hour-long IEP meetings--one in late February, the other just a couple of weeks ago--with Baroy and our advocate on either side of me. It was what led to me sitting there, wondering why it was that listening to all those people (somewhere between 8 and 10 of us were in the room, coming and going, throughout the times we met) saying exactly what I've spent at least the last two years BEGGING them to say made me want to pull my shirt over my head and hide under the table. We checked off boxes: Primary special-ed qualifying disability, autism (which covers the PDD diagnosis). Secondary special-ed qualifying disability, OHI (other health impaired, which covers the anxiety diagnosis). Tertiary special-ed qualifying disability--and this one required an added sheet of paper, because the official IEP form only has room for TWO qualifying disabilities--specific learning disability.

"He's hit the trifecta!" one of the district administrators said, jokingly, smiling at me, knowing I should have been happy, knowing this is what I'd fought for. Hard.

He was right. I should have been happy. I wasn't.

I felt hopeful, especially once I saw the list of additional and/or enhanced services they were willing to give him. (Not nearly as many as the psychiatrist recommended, but when they didn't even blink at doubling the OT hours they'd previously fought to decrease, I knew we'd made significant strides.) I felt vindicated. (It's not just me! I'm not just some kind of developmental Munchhausen by proxy mom!) I felt exhausted. But I wasn't happy.

Autistic. Anxious. Learning disabled.

But still N. No different than the N of three days, three months, three years before.

And yet hard to talk about. Not because I was embarrassed or ashamed or in any type of denial. But because I felt like I owed you something significant, something transcendent, something important to repay you for all the time and back-patting and support you've given me. There I was, sort of sad and vaguely disspirited, feeling like I needed to buck up, to rise above. To figure out the graceful, thoughtful, meaningful words--the absolute right words--to put down here. To write something that moms of special needs kids could read and hold on to. To make this count. To make the struggle and joy and pain and hard work--did I mention the hard work?--mean something.

It didn't happen. Not in January, or February, before it had all been settled, but that was OK, because I figured I just needed time to digest, to know what happens in the end. But then came March, and with it the closure I was looking for, IEP-wise at least, diagnosis-wise for sure, but I still haven't figured it out.

The only thing I know is that if I were to wait until I've figured it out, you'll never hear from me again. And so you get this. And hopefully more of this. And maybe a little of that. And some of the other stuff, too. It's not what I wanted to give you, but it's what I have to offer.

It's hard work. All of it. Hard work. But worth it.

My Blues Buster

A couple of days ago, I posted this on Twitter:

Why does depression always hit right when everything in my life is upside down and I can't really focus on myself? Oh...wait... 9:22 AM Feb 4th from web

It was a bit of a throwaway...Those of you on Twitter know what I mean. It was just what was on my mind at that moment; within thirty seconds, though, I was thinking about something else. I mean, sure, I've been struggling a little lately, but...you know. You KNOW. I know you do.

What I'd forgotten, however, is that Baroy is on Twitter. Rarely, but he's there. And he just so happened to check his feed that day, and I guess my comment worried him. When I got home that night, he pulled me aside, looked deeply into my eyes, and asked me if everything was OK.

I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about.

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh," he said, taken aback. "It's just...I read on Twitter...and..."

"Ah," I said, understanding, waving my hand dismissively, embarrassed. "Well, yeah, you know how it's been. Just a hard time right now. I was just feeling sorry for myself. But I'm fine. I'll be fine."

Except, of course, that for my (you know what men are like, right?) need-to-fix-it husband, "I'll be fine" wasn't good enough. And so he's spent the last couple of days trying to make me feel better.

His first couple of attempts were totally male, and that's all I'll say about that. But then I came home today, after a morning out with the kids, to a newly mopped kitchen floor, a scrubbed stovetop, and a oven that...Wait. You have to see it to believe it.


To make it even more impressive? That is an OOOOOOLLLLLLDDDDDD oven. At least 35 years old. Maybe more. So to get it that clean? Took some serious dedication.

I sometimes forget, in the midst of being annoyed at him about this or that or the other little thing, what a good guy he is. What a good person he is. In many ways, a better person than I am. Because I can say without hesitation that, were the tables turned, I'd be all eyerollingly annoyed that he was falling apart on me at a difficult time. I would not, on a free-to-do-what-I-want-by-myself Saturday morning, be scrubbing years-old sweet potato leavings from the bottom of an ancient oven to try to make him feel better.

That my friends, is love. I'm so lucky. I just need to remember that.

Push

I don't want to.

I don't feel well.

I don't feel well because I don't want to.

Lately, I'm finding it harder and harder (and I mean HARDER) to get past the part of me that rebels against almost any new or unusual or untried event or experience. Sure, I wanted to see Em play a 12-minute exhibition soccer game, with her team, on a full-size field during the local community college game's halftime this evening. But what if it's crowded, I asked myself throughout the week? (At a community college Friday-night soccer game?) Where will I park? (Um, one of the 75 parking lots on or around campus, perhaps?) How will I find the stadium? (The blinding lights? Just follow 'em.) How will I find the team once I get there? (Yeah, you're right. Hard to pick out 12 girls in blue uniforms on bleachers in a crowd of under 75 spectators.)

By the time I left work today, I was in full pout mode. My head hurt, my body ached, I only wanted to go home and go to bed. I knew I couldn't bail--Baroy, as the team's assistant coach, would have to go out onto the field during the halftime game, and he couldn't take N with him. But that doesn't mean I couldn't bitch and moan to myself all the way home, all the way through changing clothes. It doesn't mean I didn't curse under my breath when Baroy didn't pick up his cell phone when I called to complain about how icky I felt, and to try to talk him into dropping N home on the way to the game, so I could stay put. It doesn't mean I didn't curse out loud all the way to the pizza parlor where the team was having its pre-game dinner. And it doesn't mean that I didn't give in to all the stress I was feeling about the whole thing while driving Em over to the stadium, following Baroy and N, and ranting loudly the entire time about the stupid way he chose to go. (It was--I will give myself this--a very stupid way to go. Extra distance AND the worst traffic in the area. Still...in front of Em? I should be kicked.)

And, of course, all that angst was for naught. Once there, I gobbled up every second of the experience, especially the part where my kid--a kid with MY GENES, which I would have sworn to you were such completely ANTI-ATHLETIC genes that they would have had the power to SQUASH any athletic genes Baroy might try to pass along--arced an incredible shot at the goal, which the other team's goalie juuuuuuust managed to get a couple of fingers on and deflect. Even if there were only a few dozen folks there, it was still awesome to hear them shout for my girl, calling out, "Great shot, number 12!" In fact, when Baroy was ready to go, after the exhibition and during the college game's second half, I talked him into staying longer, so that Em could continue to hang out on the sidelines of the field with her teammates and act as ball girl, gathering up the soccer balls that went sailing past the goal every few minutes.

But that's not unusual, either. I'm always reluctant to go somewhere, but once I'm there--once I know that there aren't crowds likely to swallow me up, that I'm not going to be stuck in some panic-inducing, car-immobilizing traffic jam, that I'm not going to get lost in an unfamiliar place--I'm fine.

(If any of the things I fear do happen, however, all bets are off. Just ask my friends about the first year we went up to Big Bear during the Christmas holidays and I lost my MIND on the packed streets of the Village and pretty much simply BOLTED. Now, every year, I fight incipient panic attacks as the date for that annual-though-no-longer-at-Christmastime trip gets closer. Add to that the fact that there's really only one road up or down the mountain--a fact that fills me with a sense of claustrophobia I can barely stand to even write about here--and, well, all I can say is that if it weren't for the fact that it would almost literally kill my husband and kids to miss the trip, I'd probably never start up that mountain again. And yet, once I get there...it is BY FAR my favorite weekend of the year. Go figure.)

All of which leads me to...Nope. I got nothin'. I have no idea how to end this. It leads me to despair, I guess, at how this sort of over-reactivity only seems to get worse with age, not better. Because as I get older, I start to add new tricks to my get-out-of-uncomfortable-situations arsenal, the most recent being the Why should I do things that make me miserable? Haven't I earned the right by now to stick only to my comfort zone, if that's what makes me comfortable? whine.

And, sure, to some degree I have earned that right. But if I let myself exercise it all the time, or even close to as frequently as I'd like to, I'd wind up awfully close to what pretty much any armchair psychiatrist would be able to label as agoraphobia. Which makes me think that, for as long as I'm capable of pushing myself in the other direction, I need to keep on pushing.

Otherwise, one of these days, I'm going to miss seeing the goal my kid scores under the bright lights of a nearly-empty soccer field on a warm fall evening. Or, as would have happened tonight, I'll miss seeing her come oh-so-close, make a tiny moue of disappontment, and then get right back into the game.

She has so much to teach me.

Details, Details

Things are insane. That's become the norm, but still. They are. My house is a wreck, and the parts of it that are the wreckiest are my parts. I am behind in my work work, my freelance work, my house work. I literally can't use my desk any more for the piles of stuff on it...and on my chair, and on the floor spaces that surround my chair.

And so, when I have a spare 15 or 20 minutes, what do I do? I take a toothpick and scrape around the edges of the stovetop, to see if I can get that thin line of grease to go away. I take a toothbrush and try to scrub around and between the hinges of the toilet seat in the kids' bathroom to see if I can make that SMELL go away. (Little boy + Bad aim = Dear GOD it's like living in a frickin' ZOO.) I grab a Magic Eraser and try to scrub away the probably-decades-old rust stains around the faucet handles in the kids' shower...the shower nobody uses because it's too small and the pipes are rusty (hence the stains) and the hot water goes from nonexistent to scalding when you breathe in the direction of the hot-water handle.

I try to do something that can be done. That can be finished in those rare, spare 15 minutes. That can make me feel like I've accomplished something.

And I have. The grease is gone. The smell has abated (at least until the next time N uses the bathroom and gets distracted). The rust stains are incrementally less obvious.

But the piles are still there, the work still undone, the desk still unusable, and the chaos still beyond overwhelming. Funny, that. Funny how the lack of grease around the stovetop's edges didn't change everything, didn't somehow subdue the insanity that surrounds me.

Funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Compulsive

My brother-in-law and I call them "habits," because "habits" sounds so much better than "obsessions."

Nonetheless, that's what they are. Obsessions. Compulsions, really. In fact, both he and I have--at one point or another in our lives--had the words obsessive and compulsive and disorder put together into one phrase, and applied to us in writing, on a medical record.

This means that my kids? Have it coming and going, from both ends of the gene pool.

All of which is to say that the morning 'routine' N has developed should be no surprise to me. There's the fact that he almost physically needs me to park in the same spot on the side street near the school. The fact that I must stop by the same "No Parking" sign to kiss the two of them goodbye. The fact that I absolutely, positively must then walk about twenty yards away while he and Em climb The Stairs, after which I must turn and wait for him to get to the top. The fact that he and I then have a precisely scripted and yelled dialog from (his) top of stairs to (my) assigned waiting area. (N: Bye, Mom! Love you! Me: Bye, sweetie! Love you too! N: See you after school, see you in the night time! Me: See you later! Have a great day!) The fact that as I walk away, he HAS TO continue to yell and wave to me ("Bye Mom! Bye! Love you! Bye!") until he can no longer see me.

And, quite honestly, I don't mind any of it. Or, at least, I don't mind any of the part I just described to you. Because, sure, it's a little obsessive, a little "habitty," as my BIL and I would say. But it's a harmless habit, a reassuring habit, a habit that--to anyone on the outside looking in--doesn't really look like a habit, unless they realized how choreographed it is.

I guess what it comes down to is, if it doesn't bother me, I don't think of it as a problem.

But there's a part I left out, a part that does bother me...for reasons I can't quite explain. It's the part right after the kiss at the No Parking sign, and before I retreat to my designated 'wave and shout goodbyes' spot. It's the part where he says to me, "You'll go and wait and turn around to watch me at the top of the stairs, right?" It's the part where, if I don't answer him and reassure him that yes, I will, I always do, don't I?, he will ask me again and again, won't leave my side until he gets what he's looking for, what he needs.

That's the part that feels like true obsession, because there's just so much anxiety surrounding it. I've been trying, of late, to 'wean' him of it a little. At first I went too far, refusing to answer him at all, pretending I didn't hear him. When this actually resulted in him bursting into tears, I took it down a notch. Instead, I've started dropping off the "yes, I will," part, and just reminding him that I always do. The first time I said that, he kept pushing, still pushing, "But you will today too, right? Will you?" By now, he's accepted that IS my version of yes. I've even said to him, "I'm not going to answer you, because I need you to trust me. I always stand there. If I EVER forget to stand there, then you can ask me. But since I never forget, you don't need to ask me."

The problem is, he DOES need to ask me. And he needs to get a specific answer. All he's done is translate that little diatribe above into his version of "yes." He's still getting what he wants, and what he needs, and that feels...wrong. To me.

My problem is, I know exactly how right that feels to him.

Rather, I know it's wrong, and I know he needs to stop, and I know how it will mess with him as this compulsion--this requirement--morphs into other compulsions, other requirements. But I also know how it can actually hurt--deep down in places so primal you can't even name them--if you try to deny a compulsion. It's the feeling I used to have when I'd be on the subway during my lunch hour, traveling from Manhattan to Brooklyn by myself rather than eating lunch with my friends, because I absolutely had to check to be sure my iron was turned off. It's the feeling I still sometimes get, today, when we're halfway down the street, late for a soccer game or a doctor's appointment (because it's always when we're late that the compulsions get triggered, never when I'm calm and have time; stress is what they feed on), and I become convinced that I've left a burner on on the stove, and I must go back and check the knobs...even if I haven't cooked a thing all day.

If you tried to stop me then, I...I can't tell you what would happen. Most immediately, I would descend into a panic attack. But it feels even scarier than that, on the inside. It feels like you're simply going to fall apart, literally, physically. It's not in your control, this feeling. The compulsions really do take you hostage.

And so I'm trying very hard to find a place where I can challenge N's compulsions, without scaring him like that. Make him uncomfortable, without causing him to fall apart. But it's hard, because there's such a big part of me that is right there with him. It's hard, because all the while I'm pushing at him for his own good, I'm aware that I really ought to be doing the same to myself. It's hard, because it's so unfair. He doesn't deserve this, not him, especially not him, not on top of everything else.

Frickin' genes.

Settling In

When you find out you're in danger of being laid off, it's no surprise when you start to feel stressed, snappish, anxious, even depressed. At least, it didn't surprise me when I started feeling all of those things. What got me was the creeping mental paralysis...the way I became unable to sort through my options regarding any decision that had anything to do with my continued employment.

Some of the indecision made sense. Should I bother putting in the paperwork to lower my deductions if I wasn't going to be getting a paycheck much longer? It would make sense to take more of my paycheck home with me, on the one hand; on the other hand, just imagine the potential for screwups during the cutting of my final, all-important severance check! Better to let things lie. Maybe. Or not.

Did I want to open a savings account with the credit union, only to end up closing it out a month later? Was it really worth my time?

So it would go. Endless back and forth with myself. A complete inability to make a final decision.

And then it started creeping into the smallest, stupidest corners of my life. I'd eat something for lunch that was a little garlicky, say, and think to myself, "I should really get a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste to keep in my desk." But then I'd think, "Except I'm not going to go out and spend money on an extra tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush I'll then have to take home and have sitting on my bathroom counter, taunting me."

I'd go into the bathroom and realize my hair was sticking up in a weird way, and I'd think to myself, "I should really get an extra hairbush to keep in my desk." See above for the way the rest of that internal conversation went.

It went on and on and on.

To which library should I direct my interlibrary loans...the one near my house, or the one near my office? The office one is much more convenient, but it would totally suck to have to drive out here to pick up books if I got laid off.

I acquired enough points from one of those survey sites to redeem them for a $25 gift card to a book store...but which book store should I choose? The one nearest my office is a Borders, whereas the ones nearest my home and the synagogue are both Barnes & Noble. I hardly ever have the time to get to B&N while I'm working, but if I order the Borders card and then I'm no longer working around here, I'd have to drive out of my way to use it.

My hair is getting long, and my bangs are hanging in my face. Should I get a haircut? If I'm going back to working from home, it's not worth the money, since I can just put on a headband to pull it back. But if I'm coming into an office every day, it should look a little more professional than that.

I could go on and on and on and on like this. My days turned into a series of unanswerable (and unutterably stupid) questions: Do I need a new pair of black flats for work, or a new pair of walking shoes for home? Should I start picking up the Walgreens circular, or stick with the one from the Rite Aid near me? Should I buy a pint of half-and-half to keep in the office fridge, or a longer-lasting quart?

All of that ended last Wednesday, when I heard that my job is safe, at least for the time being. The Borders gift card is now ordered; I have three audiobooks on order for the near-my-office branch of the library; the Walgreens circular is on my desk; and the pint of half-and-half has been transfered to the office fridge. Plus, there is a new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste in my desk drawer, alongside a hairbrush, some hand cream, and a metal fork and spoon from the 99 Cent Store.



I am ready to work.

Except...I really do still need a hair cut.

How Obvious

There's a meeting at 10 am this morning with the university president, a sort of town-hall update thingy, which is obviously not going to be pretty, though I doubt it will include things like, "Everybody who still works for this university, raise your hand...Oh, not so fast, TC!"

There's a meeting at 2 pm this afternoon with our division head, a sort of debriefing from the town-hall update, which is obviously not going to be pretty. And while I doubt there'll be any "not so fast, TC" handraising there, either, it may give me a better idea about whether or not I should bother buying many university-logo-emblazoned sweatshirts in the near future, I'm thinking.

On Wednesday, we have N's IEP meeting. It's not going to be pretty. It's already involved several snippy phone calls and vague threats and tears...all coming from me.

All of which might explain the fact that, at 5:23 this morning, I woke up from the tail end of a nightmare in which a plane N and I were traveling on--me on the opposite side of the aisle from him--suddenly turned upside down, righted itself, and then begin to spin into the NYC skyline. All while I was trying to unbuckle my seatbelt to get over to him, but couldn't get it to release, and just kept screaming, "Oh god, oh god, oh godohgodohgod..."

I really do have the world's most disappointingly uncreative subconscious. I mean, COME ON. Couldn't it have tried to put SOMETHING in code? Maybe have us crash into a different city from the one we'd be most likely to flee to in a time of crisis? Or at least put Em on the plane with us, so that it wasn't quite so obvious which child I feel I can't quite reach?

Sheesh. I'd say I need a shrink, but I really don't. At least not to decipher my dreams for me, that's for sure. I do, however, need some sleep, because I never quite got back to it after that. And I obviously need some stress reduction. And maybe some booze. Which is the best form of stress reduction I know.

Not to mention it might not be the best idea for me to be reading the unbearably graphic Holocaust novel my book club chose right before bed. I'm betting that's not helping, either. Because I'm smaht like that.

Taking Up Space

I really haven't spent the last three days hyperventilating and tingling and jumping out of my skin; nor have I spent them drugged to the gills. In fact, the number of X*nax in my little bottle is exactly the same as it was last week.

That panic attack passed, as they usually do. It was a rather quick passage, to be honest, probably helped along by being forced to think about someone other than me--GASP! I know! What a concept! To be more specific, it was helped along by hearing about someone else's ongoing panic attack...one which made mine look like nuttin'. I wouldn't exactly call it schadenfreude,* but there is something liberating in knowing that not only are others going through what you're going through, but they need your help to get through it. If that makes any sense at all. (So thanks, you. And I hope you're feeling better.)

Now that I think about it, I wonder if that would work with physical illnesses as well? I mean, I've got this niggly little cold/sore throat combo thingy that's making me cranky. Anyone wanna call me and tell me about how you have the flu, to see if we can knock this thing right outta me? I'd definitely appreciate it!

*Avenue Q is definitely one of my all-time favorite shows. Ever.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

[You may recognize yourself in here, playing a role in my Bad Day. This is not meant to make you feel bad, in ANY way. This is my problem, my screwed up neurochemicals. You may have your own problems, and your own screwed-up neurochemicals, but you're not responsible for mine.]

I've been in an off mood. Re-entry into Real Life hasn't been easy. There are increasing layoff rumors at work, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't more than a little worried. (There's a campus-wide staff meeting scheduled for Monday, with the university president presiding. THAT can't be good.) The kids returned to school today...FINALLY...but both were complaining of aches and pains. My throat hurts, too.

In other words, I didn't start off with a particularly propitious baseline of mental health today.

Then I got to work. And got an email from a friend telling me about her Crazy Ex (who really makes all other Crazy Exes look very, very, very sane) and his latest legal/emotional torture tactics. In responding, I talked a little about similar issues we'd had regarding Stalker Girl. Really, I should have known better. Even six years down the road, I should have known that talk of Stalker Girl = Automatic Panic. But I wasn't paying attention. I did notice that my stomach was a little fluttery, though.

Then I read a blog entry from another friend, who is worried about her son's IEP. And responded with a note talking about N's IEP, scheduled for next week, and how scared I am about what will happen there. (Yes, I *do* make everything about me. This is a surprise? Have you not MET me? But I will say, in my defense, that these comments were at least vaguely relevant to the conversations at hand. That's not always the case.) After that, I noticed that my hands were a little shaky.

Then another friend emailed about our upcoming annual multi-family vacation plan. Yay, vacation! That couldn't possibly spike my panic, right? Oh, ye of little faith in my level of mental illness. In that email were not one, but TWO spiking comments. One was about our plans for N's birthday during our vacation. This shouldn't be an issue, but it is, because the whole subject of N's birthday is a stressful one right now. (I'd explain more, but it's all about guilt and overscheduling and money. And it's not even interesting.)

The other comment mentioned the traffic that's likely to occur on our way up to our vacation spot, and possible ways to get around it. Here's what you need to know regarding that: I get unbearably claustrophic in cars stuck in traffic. Especially cars stuck in traffic winding up a mountain on a road off of which there are no other routes. Guess what kind of road we'll be traveling? My level of claustropobia, by the way, is severe. Severe enough that I always spend the weeks leading up to our annual trip coming up with reasons why I shouldn't go. And, once there, I spend a lot of time trying NOT to spend a lot of time worrying about the trip home. (You can see why everyone should want me to come on their vacation with them, right? Because I DEFINE fun.)

So that was already there, in the back of my mind, fermenting. To add to it, I asked my boss yesterday about taking our travel day off, so that I could avoid the worst of the traffic. He said no...for valid reasons involving the fact that only one other person will be in our department of five people that day. He did say I could leave early-ish, but now I'm certain it won't be nearly early-ish enough, and it's going to be awful, and I'm going to completely freak out in the car, and...

Happy vacation to me!

So, perhaps it's no surprise that, after I read the email, I noticed that my heart was jumping around in my chest a little. I hit reply and then realized, hey, my chest feels a little tight, too.

Let's review: Jumpy stomach. Shaking hands. Fast-beating heart. Tight chest. That's a panic attack, all right. I'd call it full-blown if my cheeks were tingling, too. They're not, so it's only a minor one.

And so I closed the email window (I'll get back to you later, I promise, D! And remember what I said above. NOT YOUR FAULT OR YOUR PROBLEM) and opened this one, in the hopes that I can head the full-blown-ness off with a little blog therapy. And if not? That's why I've had a bottle of five or six Xanax on my person at all times for the last five years. There's a reason they call them rescue meds.

I'll have them in the car on the way to our vacation, too. For sure.

But, really, what I need is a new brain. With all its little neurotransmitters in the right places responding to the right chemicals at the right levels. Is that so much to ask?

Apparently, it is.

Be Good

I've decided I need to stop trying to do everything, and actually BE GOOD at one thing. Or maybe two.

It's the first day back in the office. It's too soon. Or maybe it's been too long. Somewhere, I've lost the thread of gratefulness--for a job, for a regular paycheck, for something interesting to do--and all I can see is where I'm not. Home. With my kids.

I spent entirely too much time this vacation on a freelance project for which I apparently underbid; it turned out to take up much more of my time than I'd assumed. It's because I can't do things halfway, which is a good thing, I know. Or at least I believe that to be the case. Or at least I need to believe that to be the case. But sitting here this morning, realizing how much of my vacation was consumed by that not-doing-things-halfway deal, I began to get a little sad. Which of course began to snowball into a lot of sad, since that's what sadness does. My little I-wasted-time sad became why-aren't-I-using-that-time-to-do-things-I-really-WANT-to-do sad (answer: because the things I want to do don't pay, or at least don't pay in time for the mortgage this month or next). Which quickly branched off into why-isn't-my-blog-what-I-want-it-to-be sad (answer: because I don't put enough time into it), and why-haven't-I-written-a-novel-yet sad (answer: see previous). Which sprouted a few even smaller branches of sadness, involving things I'd like to read, and crafts I'd like to do, and ways I'd like to be there for my children but am not. Each of them with their own version of sad.

And so I tweeted: I've decided I need to stop trying to do everything, and actually BE GOOD at one thing. Or maybe two.

Which is all well and good, especially at this time of year. Sure, it's a few days late for resolutions and goals, but I'm well within the overall time frame. I could take this one on, make it my own, try to get rid of the sad by pursuing ways to be Not Sad.

Except even in my resolution, I'm wavering. One thing...or two. Truth is, I don't even know which one I want to do. And if I did, I'm not sure I have a clue as to how to do it. How DO you take a five-year-old blog (or at least a five-plus-year history of blogging) and make it stand out, make it work for you? How DO you find the time for a novel when all the other immediate needs crowd out any time you might be able to make for it? How DO you call yourself on your bullshit, knowing full well that plenty of people do what you can't seem to do?

Of course, all that negativity is the sad talking, methinks. I'll settle back into my new old routine in a week or two, and the sad will go away, and I'll figure it out. Or I'll keep on keeping on, but it won't make me sad.

But for now, I wallow. And try to figure out how to be good. At one thing. Or maybe two.

Let Go

I've been doing this for well over 20 years now, this writing for money thing. And yet, the moment of letting go remains terrifying for me.

It happens every single time. I finish an article, a book, a press release. I put it into an email for an editor to look at, or a scientist to review; I post it on a website for the world to read. And then, with almost as much inevitability as my next breath, comes the panic.

Sometimes it's brief--a blip, an extra heartbeat, maybe a catch in my throat. Sometimes, though, it nips at me for hours, on and off. Today's was a true nipper. I sent off a press release to the scientists about whom I was writing, asking for their changes and comments. It was a good release, I was sure of it. Well, not sure. Fairly sure. As sure as I ever am.

But then, half an hour or so passed, and the doubt started creeping in. I rarely hear back quickly; scientists are busy doing science, most of the time, and it often takes hours for them to be in a place where they're ready and able to review a document. But surely--my brain hissed at me--one time, the delay will mean more than that. One time, my brain said, it will be because they hate what you've written, think you're an idiot. One time, it will be because you got it all wrong, misunderstood the entire study. Who do you think you are, anyway? Like you couldn't get it wrong? Like you're so smart?

And just like that, the panic set in. It followed me on a walk to a restaurant to meet with a writer; it jabbed at me while we ate, then followed me back to my office. Where there were no emails in my inbox from the scientists in question. And so it jabbed away some more while I tried to do some other tasks...jab, jab, jab...until I finally gave in and contrived an excuse to email them again, asking if they'd received my initial mail, you know how these campus email servers are, just wanted to check, no pressure, no rush.

And received a response within an hour telling me what a great job I'd done on the release, how there were only a couple of very small changes, thanks for all your work.

So dumb. So unnecessary. So classic me.

Last night was the worst, though. I'd posted a press release online--a release already approved by several scientists, as well as gone over by some copy editors. It was after midnight--I'd needed to get it up on the site asap for reasons that are too boring and complicated to go into--and I was working on my laptop, in bed, ready to roll over and go to sleep once this task was done. All I did was copy, paste, fill in a form, and push a 'submit' button.

But as soon as that was done, the terror swooped in. As planned, I'd put the laptop on the night table, turned off the light, and slid under the covers. And then my heart started to pound. What if I'd pushed the wrong button, posted it in the wrong place? Surely, somewhere in that release was a mistake, a big mistake, a life-altering error, something I was bound to regret. In a release. A press release. About subduction zones. (No, it's not only you. The panic made no sense to me either. But, of course, that defines panic, that non sense.)

I timed it. It took more than 45 minutes for my heart to stop thudding, for my finger and cheeks to stop tingling, for my chest to loosen up. I was asleep within minutes, after that.

This is what I love doing, mind you. I love writing. I love learning about all sorts of really cool scientific findings and then telling other people why they're really cool. I'm good at it. I know it in my heart, my gut.

Now someone just needs to convince my brain.

How to Induce a Panic Attack

It doesn't take much: All you need to do is turn down your street, a block and a half away from your house, and notice the fire engine in the distance. Drive a little closer, and you notice a second truck, a paramedic's truck, and then a third truck...an ambulance. Calculate the distance quickly in your head. Yep. They're all parked in front of your house, all right. Is that a crowd of people? Can you see your kids in the crowd? What were they wearing this morning, anyway?

Next, pull the car over in the middle of the block before yours. You do this for two reasons: One, your street is narrow and you know you won't be able to get your car past the fire truck...not to mention it sure LOOKS like that ambulance is blocking your driveway. Two, you're about to throw up. With the car off, sit for a second and think: Should you get out of the car and run toward the commotion? No. Instead, you pick up your phone and dial your home number. Pick up, pick up, pick up. If he picks up, you're thinking, it probably means it's not him, or Em or N. Pick up, pick up, pick up. When he does, after three rings, you start to cry. It's only then that you notice your hands are shaking so violently you can't keep the phone close enough to your ear to really hear anything more than your neighbor's name. You leave the car where it is, and walk home. It takes hours for the shaking to stop.

[This was Monday evening; it turns out my next-door neighbor had been working in the garden, and it was extremely hot, and she began to feel faint. Unsure what to do, she'd called 9-1-1. In the end, they admitted her to the hospital; her two boys stayed with friends down the street. I don't know if she's home yet--I didn't see her, her husband or her boys yesterday to ask how she's doing--but I'm assuming it's going to be OK. Thank goodness.]

Radio Silence

Meg just about made me cry today with a comment left on my last post that said, in part:

I have been checking in quite often for updates to see how you are doing. If possible, please update so I can (hopefully) stop worrying about you.

And sometimes I wonder why I blog? That's why I blog. Knowing there are people out there who care makes me pull my head out of my butt every now and again, even if just for a couple of seconds, long enough to say...something. What can I say? What is there to say?

Well, I can say this: The good news is that I am no longer stressing for unknown reasons about little things, about silly things, about other people's problems.

Unfortunately, that's because I am now stressing even more about big, real things: Job things, money things, the way in which one seemingly small disaster can take down the entire house of cards. Which really sucks, if you're the one living in that house of cards, watching them crumple around you.

I'm pretty sure it's karma. You wanna stress? karma asked me, smirking disdainfully in my direction. I'll give you something to stress about.

That karma's a bitch, I tell you. And she's a smart bitch. Because not only do I now have Very Real things to stress about, but they're all in the Do Not Speak Of This On Your Blog realm. And so...radio silence. At least on this subject. For now. Until the happier days have arrived. Which, I am sure, they will.

Until then, I have this to steady me: You guys care. And that makes more of a difference than you might think. Enough of a difference that I don't even care how much that just sounded like Sally Field.

Stress Case

For those of you who've never struggled with anxiety and panic, here's how you know when you've crossed the line from "this sucks, but life goes on" to "if I had better mental health benefits, I'd totally be lying in a heap on some random therapist's doorstep this morning, just waiting."

You've crossed the line when the things that you can NOT get out of your head, the things that are making your heart pound and your chest tighten, the things that are stopping you from being able to think anything other than DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, have almost nothing whatsoever to do with you.

That's right. I am currently having panic attacks about OTHER PEOPLE'S PROBLEMS.

This sucks.

I have plenty to worry about on my own, mind you. All of it stressful; none of it truly worthy of panic. But once your body's primed for panic attacks, this is what sometimes comes. Your body doesn't care if the stressors are big things or little things; pile on enough of them and, once you pass a certain stress load, here comes the panic.

And, for me, there's been a bunch of little things: Big deadlines at work, people I need information from not calling me back, items I've ordered arriving broken (and requiring me to make phone calls to return them). Em had to have a couple of canine baby teeth removed yesterday, and she started crying and freaking out about it a full 24 hours in advance. N is worried about the start of school, and letting that turn him into a little contrary monster. I put a single scratch in the rear bumper of someone's car a week and a half, and the nightmare that has resulted from it is still ongoing and has pretty much convinced me to NEVER AGAIN 'fess up when I do something like that. That sort of thing.

And so, yeah. Heart pounding, hands shaking, chest tight. I know the drill. If I don't have to drive for a while, I take half a Xanax and it goes away. If I do have to drive, I wait and take it later.

Except this has been going on for over a week now, pretty much without a break. And the last couple of days, I've woken up with it; usually, panic comes on as the day wears on. But worst of all is the fact that the thing I can't get out of my head--not the thing I'm REALLY worrying about, I know that--is an issue someone else is having with their kid. And it's something so more-or-less entirely removed from me, and someone with whom I am not even especially close, that it's not like I've been drawn into the drama. At all. It's so much not my business that I wouldn't even feel comfortable writing about it here, because the characters involved don't read or necessarily even know about my blog, and it feels like it would be an invasion of privacy somehow.

And yet...my mind, clearly kicked out of control by other circumstances, can't stop thinking about it. It's like the whole stairs thing, where I'm thinking of letters I should write and people I should confront and entire institutions I should take on. Except with the stairs...that was nominally about me, because it was about my kids' safety. This time, it's not even more than tangentially about one of my kids, and not at ALL about me.

Seeing it from the outside...KNOWING that what you're doing and thinking is crazy...doesn't stop it, unfortunately. And so it's 8:30 in the morning, I'm feeling like my head is about to pop off my body in about 30 second, and I'm dreaming about therapists and psychiatrists and Magic Pills.

I know there's an end in sight--after the deadlines are finished and the calls made or returned and the children dealt with, the panic should start to subside again. It's just that, right now, that end is pretty far away...and my eyesight sucks.

Hard Times

You'd think, this being a personal blog and all, that when things are hard in my life, I'd want to write more, to get them out, to process them, to think them through. You'd think that...if you'd never been through even a mild clinical depression in your life.

This is what depression does to me: It makes me tired. It makes me care with blazing intensity about some things, and thus not have the energy to lift my chin to even nod in the direction of other things. Writing about it all means thinking about it all, and thinking takes energy, too. I don't have it to spare.

Which is a pity, because I could use the free therapy. It would be good to 'talk out' some of the things that are behind this feeling right now. It would be good to be able to explore why it is I'm so disappointed with where my life is and what it means. It would be good to be able to consider the idea of regret, of how all those years of someday-I'll-do-its can't be brought back so that IT can actually be DONE. It would be stupendous, considering the week I've been having, to be able to find the energy to articulate how hard it is, sometimes, to be Mom, and do it even moderately well.

But, oh, just thinking about it all makes my fingers numb with not-wanting to type it out or work it out.

Not that I necessarily would, or perhaps should, even if I could. Because on top of all this depression silliness--even on days when The Tired isn't so prevalent--is the reality of blogging. Those of you who do it know what I mean. This is a public forum; what I say can and will get back to the people I'm saying it about...if not now, maybe later. And, despite the much-hated color scheme on this blog, it all comes out (figuratively speaking) in black and white. Everything I write gets infused with so much gravitas; writing about something makes it seem like that something is the only thing. So I write this post about depression, and you all picture me hunched in a ball or something, endlessly rocking back and forth. Because that's the picture I'm giving you of this moment.

Meanwhile, as you read this, I'm walking down the hill to Vons, to pick up stuff for dinner; while I'm there, I'll run into one or another neighbor or friend and we'll gossip for 10 minutes. Then I'll go pick up the kids from school, where I'll let Em's friend C's grandma buy them "Friday Treats." If it's popsicles, I'll buy one for myself, too. And I'll hold N's hand as we walk home, and he'll pick me a flower from the side of the road as we go, because he does so every day, and Em and C will tell me all the latest school gossip. And I'll smile and I'll laugh and I'll have a genuinely nice time. Nothing to worry about there.

Or maybe, as you read this, I'm making dinner, and the kids are bugging me about something, and I'm snapping at them to get the heck out of the kitchen and let me finish what I'm doing for once in my life for crying out loud. That's not depression; that's life with kids. Nothing to worry about there, either.

Where I know it's depression and not just life is in how hard it is for me to deal with the not-everyday. I know it by how, when N's teacher pulls me aside in the morning to tell me about the ways in which she's worried about him at this point in the year (which are different but no less real than the ways in which she worried about him earlier in the year), it doesn't just eat away at me all day, but it translates into me absolutely LOSING it while doing homework with him later that afternoon, me actually bursting into tears and thinking, "That's it. He really is just stupid." (And then thinking, "I can't say that on my blog...What if he reads it some day? It will destroy him." So, Future N, I need to say this: You're not stupid, and I don't think you're stupid. I think you're brilliant. I did once let in a little bit of despair about your intellect, for about an hour, when I was in a bad place. That's it. But because it's written here doesn't make it so.)

What I mean to say is that I know it's depression because of how easily and quickly the usual coping mechanisms fail me in ways both major and mundane. I know it's depression because writing this has taken two hours, most of which was spent jumping up from my chair to go outside and pull a few weeds and work off the nervous energy talking about this sort of stuff brings up in me when I'm living it. I know it's depression because I don't feel a whole lot better now, for getting some of this off my chest.

And yet, it actually has helped some. Like I said, it's not just black and white.

Because so many of you are family or close friends--people for whom reading the words, "I'm depressed," prompts you to worry about me in a deeper way--let me say this: I am depressed, but it's nothing big or wild or unusual or out of control. It's just another in a series of hard times, and it's not even an especially hard one. I've been there and back enough times to know what bad looks like, and it doesn't look like this. If I didn't have a blog, you wouldn't even know to worry. So don't worry. I've been through it before; I'll get through it this time; I'll go through it again.

Artificial Sweeteners Make Me Angry

I've been fighting this conclusion for ages. It seems so New Age-y, and I'm not. I'm skeptical about these assertions that you can pin behavior directly on something like preservatives or sugar or Red Dye #348,985,875.

(On the other hand, I'm a huge believer in the idea that diet can *influence* behavior. My skepticism is based on the "get rid of this one specific preservative, and your ADHD child will be the calmest kid on the block" argument. I just don't buy it.)

Which is why, as I said, I've been fighting this conclusion for ages. But I can't fight it any more. Artificial sweeteners in general--and NutraSweet in particular--make me angry. I drink a diet soda, I yell at my kids. It's almost a one-to-one correlation. I don't know how it works, exactly, but I know I'm not alone...There's plenty out there in the Google world on anger and irritability (as well as depression and mood swings) and their link to sucralose and its pals.

Why am I suddenly so sure? I've been avoiding diet drinks of late, on purpose...a difficult thing to do in my house, since Baroy is a Diet Coke (and Diet Canada Dry and Diet Anything With Bubbles) addict, and my fridge is STUFFED full of the stuff. But I've done that before, testing the "is this stuff making me mean?" waters. The difference is, I've been in a really unusually calm mood of late. I mean, I'm totally stressed at work--I've got a new title, new position, new tasks to learn--but that's stress, not anger, and it's been really focused on work. I've been truly (and unusually) calm at home, dealing with the kids with an evenness that I often aspire to but rarely achieve, and bantering happily with Baroy without any unnecessary snarkiness. (I won't swear to the absence necessary snarkiness, of course...but that's a different ballgame entirely.)

And then, not even thinking about it, I grabbed a diet ginger ale at dinnertime. Within an hour, I was snapping at N for...well, for walking past me. (In my defense: He kept knocking into me as he came and went from the living room, and twice nearly knocked my laptop onto the floor. But still. He was walking past me. There were ways to deal with it that didn't have to involve a voice raised in anger.) And then I went to put him to bed, and found myself yelling at him for not paying complete and proper attention when I read to him, and then yelling into Em's room because she hadn't turned off her light the VERY SECOND I told her to, and then stomping out of N's room because he was wriggling around and making me insane. By wriggling. A little.

I stomped into the living room, huffing and puffing like I was the World's Most Put-Upon Mother, what with having to deal with all that wriggling! and all that not turning off the light! and all that, um, EXISTING. Sheesh. What about ME? What about MY NEEDS? And I plopped down on the couch next to Baroy, rolling my eyes at him when he asked me whether they'd gone down all right...because how DARE he? Now I was the World's Most Put-Upon Wife, what with having to deal with all these questions! and the expectation of answers! Sheesh.

To return to my story: I stomped. I huffed and puffed. And I grabbed my...can......of.......OHHHHHHHH. You're kidding me. Really? That direct a link? Shit.

So, um, yeah. That not believing? I'm going to have to rethink that and get back to you on it. But I can pretty much guarantee I won't be drinking a Diet Coke while I do that.

High Anxiety

When I was in college, I drove people absolutely batty with my personal insecurities. "I'm going to fail, I'm going to fail," I'd wail incessantly before each and every exam, only to sheepishly return, days later, saying, "OK, I know I got an A, but I really did think I was going to fail."

I've been trying to keep that in mind these past few days as I've worked on a not-so-top-secret article for a Very Impressive Magazine Title under somewhat unusual circumstances. (My editor is someone I know very, very well. Working for him combines not only my usual somewhat-suckup-y and clearly daddy-related/this-woman-needs-therapy-badly need to please my editor, whoever he may be, but my much more specific need-to-please-this-specific-person-because-if-his-opinion-of-my-writing-really-really-really-matters-to-me issues.) I've been failing miserably. This morning (well, late last night) I handed in the piece with much, much trepidation. It just felt like so much less than what I'm capable of; it felt like something I'd overthought and overresearched and had way too little fun with, and I'm certain the writing reflects that. It's been so long since I've done a piece of 'real' science writing for any place even resembling the Very Impressive Magazine Title. I felt rusty and awkward, as if I couldn't trust my instincts.

My editor says he won't be able to read the piece for a few days, and that is only increasing my anxiety. I want him to read it NOW. I can't wait days to hear that it sucks, that I've let him down, that I need to do about seven days' worth of work on it in an hour and a half so that it can be published. I definitely can't wait days to hear that they won't be paying me for it; that they're scrapping it. Nor can anyone around my house wait days for me to just shut the fuck up about my insecurities and move on.

I'm going to fail. I'm definitely going to fail.

[If this sounds at all familiar to you--not just this particular type of angst, but the way in which I presented it--it is. I felt oddly deja-vu-ish while writing it, and so checked to see if I'd written it before. Yup. Everything old is old again. I will, however, point out that while the meeting I talked about for that particular day didn't go as badly as I'd thought, I did get fired from that job--well, laid off--just a couple of months later. I don't always get an A in the end.]