In Which I Decide to Be...Fine

Do you ever not know how you're doing? It used to be an easy question for me. Mostly I did crappy. Not that I ever shared that. My answer was usually, good. Or fine. Or some other not-helpful word that generally means, "Thank you for pretending to care by asking me how I'm doing but I'll be damned if I'm exposing my feelings to you."

And how are you doing today?

I had the double whammy of psychiatrist and psychologist sessions this afternoon. I'd been fretting since yesterday that when they asked how I was, I wouldn't know how to answer. Because they're really not keen on that whole "fine" thing. Geez, do I have to do all the work around here?. To be fair, I pay them to force me to be honest. Hmmm, that's sort of f'ed up when you think about it that way. So I decided to depend on their professional opinions.

Turns out I'm doing pretty good. Meds are doing what they're supposed to be doing. I seem to have fewer side effects than with the Zoloft. Although withrawal is much worse. Not that I did it on purpose. I'm just forgetful. You would think the spinning rooms and massive headaches would be a good reminder. Turns out I'm not nearly as bright as I like to think I am.

Anyhoo. My 20 year high school reunion is in June. And I've got way too much emotional baggage being dumped in my psyche for me to believe that, as I like to claim, I just don't give a rat's ass. And when I realized that, I started beating myself up for not getting on with my life. 20 years? It's time to move on, damn it.