Let me summarize my appointent with the headologist, whom we shall now refer to as Dr. Bootstraps, thusly:
I have been hoping that being batshit crazy was more charming than self-destructive. Turns out I am (probably) wrong.
Summary: never tell an exquisitely turned out sixty year old German PhD who awakens at 4am every day because it is healthy that you feel sad about how your life is going and could she please turn down the voices in your head because that is what you are paying her for. It won't go over.
The moment I met her, I knew our chat was not going to be a "curl-up on the couch and tell me why you are sad" situation. The headologist's hair, jewelry, shoe, and hangbag synergy terrified me. Were it not for her placid demeanor and willingness to give me more Xanax, I could safely say she is the scariest persn I have ever met.
I did not love her hard ass condemnation of my self pity and I did not love her disdain for my unfamiliarity with boot straps and pulling them up. I did not love her little video designed to determine whether I am bi-polar or not (people, I pray for mania. At least if I had a good week of it, I'd get something done). I also didn't love her sweepingly general questions.
Dr. Bootstraps; "From today back to the age of twelve, have you ever thought of suicide? Yes or no answer, please."
Nina's real answer: Well, the first time I was eight and my parents refused to get me the Betty Crocker Mini-bake oven but I am glad I didn't got through with it because a few weeks later I got it for Christmas. Also when my dog died and my Dad said he was in special animal heaven I wanted to die too so I could be with him but then I decided it against it because I'd go to people heaven and wouldn't get to see him anyway. Also I think if I can just manage to achieve the bottom rung of purgatory, I might someday live on a cloud and strum a harp and never have to speak to anyone, ever again, who doesn't understand the heartbreaking loveliness of the semi-colon. Also sometimes when I am really mad I think if I die then they will be sorry. So very sorry.
What Nina says: I'd never do it.
Dr. Bootstraps; Yes or no?
Nina says: *with a big, dramatic, f-you sigh*: No.
Dr. Bootstraps; From the time you were twelve until now, have you ever felt you were better than everyone else?
Nina says: Absolutely. *giggle* Oh, I am sorry. Yes.
Compassionate, oh-wow-you-are-batshit-crazy- smile. Perfect hair. Realtor Jewelry. Matching handbag. Shimmering polished finger nails.
In the end my diagnosis was something really, really unsatisfying. Something like "Nina is having a rough time." Thanks, Bootstraps. I knew that before I got here.
On my way out, I gave her $450 I don't have, hoping that my insurance would cover any of it. Sometime soon, remind me to post the "Great Cash Hemorrhage of 2007" - because it'll blow your doors off.
Have a lovely Sunday. (And thank you for reading).