Mr Beloved and I took an (unwanted) road trip today, down to Brisbane and back. My psychiatrist has moved her practice there and the other psychs in town aren’t accepting new patients, so… after putting off the appointment three times because of the Dreaded Lurgi, today was the day.
Mr B knows where things are in Brisbane, having spent his formative years there… so although the city has mucked up the roads somewhat (you can’t turn right HERE or HERE or THERE…), he found the building, I jumped out of the car and Mr B went off to park somewhere without parking fees (since Brisbane’s parking is more expensive than just about anywhere) while I had the session.
It wasn’t good.
She does recommend I journal more to try and get to the root of my anxiety issues. Yeah, right. Because the entire shelf of notebooks full of scribble and art journal stuff haven’t been enough? I dunno.
We saw the immediate aftermath of what turns out to have been a fatal car accident as we were driving down… a little car on the other side of the highway, flipped onto its roof… we watched the police and ambulance speeding towards it 10 minutes or so later.
(Yes, driving on the highway – or having people I love driving long distances – is something that makes me anxious lately. Gee, just because the neighbours were killed in a truck crash not that long ago… I know, thousands of people drive thousands of kilometres safely ALL THE TIME, but I spend 99% of the time I am in the car as a passenger on the highway (hell no I can’t DRIVE distances, not these days) putting nail marks into the armrest. Relaxing it is not.)
And the biggest thing is that I have to somehow, I don’t know how, get a job. Get “back into the workforce.” Because apparently that will fix EVERYTHING, according to the government and according to my psychiatrist.
So I’ve come back feeling even more helpless and hopeless than before. Gee, that was worthwhile, wasn’t it?
I’m going to bed. I’ve had enough of today.