Nothing to See Here…

Yes, I know.  My blog has prolific errors showing up at the top of the page.  Poor neglected little blog. 

To this, I take the same attitude I take in life at large:  Ignore a problem long enough and hopefully it will go away.

I know, I’m practically as deep as the Greek philosophers of yore.  (And twice as wide!)

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EDITED TO ADD:  Holy guacamole, Batman!  I fixed the errors!  ME, JustLinda.  I resolved a problem.  (All Hail the Xanax!)  So now my title makes absolutely no sense.  Trust me - there were errors, major erros and *I* fixed them!  Me.  Girl Genius!
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Speaking of ignoring a problem and hoping it would go away, that strategy hasn’t been working so well in my marriage.  I’ve avoided writing about the c-o-u-n-s-e-l-i-n-g for awhile now, but perhaps it is time.  Is it time?  Do you wish to know?

I have gotten my sense of humor back, somewhat, thanks to a little yellow pill (thank-you, Wellbutrin!)  I’ll tell you that story later, the story about how the doctor was so fearful of my pent up anguish that when I had my little breakdown in his office, it started scribbling out prescriptions like there was a powerful drug cartel standing behind me forcing his hand. 

Now, where was I?  Oh, yes, the counseling.

We’ve been going for a few months now.  At first, it was hard.  No, not hard.  Hard with a capital H.  I would leave feeling way shittier than when I went in.  “Hey!  What a bargain!  Pay money and feel worse!  Why isn’t this trend catching on??” 

Only recently has that changed.  In fact, last night was the first time we walked out of there feeling truly as if, yes, we’ve made progress and we’re closer together.

The counselor is trying to teach us how to communicate more effectively.  She’s teaching us conflict resolution techniques.  She says “No, no, no - quit saying YOU this and YOU that.  It puts the other person on the defensive.” and then she said “Try formulating your thoughts into these three sections:  I SEE, I FEEL, I NEED.” 

I tried.  I turned toward him and made eye contact and said:

I see you are still being an asshole.
I feel like the recipient of your assholish behavior.
I need you to stop being an asshole.

I have no idea why he got so defensive!  I started each phrase with the word I, didn’t I?

I think my counselor felt I needed a to hone my technique a bit before it was safe to use it and not get decked. 

At the heart of it is this:  I think it’s perfectly reasonable to have sex every other day.  He needs to have sex every other minute.  He thinks a compromise is every four minutes.  My response to that was to give it up once every four weeks. 

I may or may not be exaggerating for effect.

So Doctor Mad Scribbler wrote me a prescription for Xanax too.  Lovely, lovely, wonderful Xanax.  He only gave me ten pills and, at first, I swore I wouldn’t use them.  I didn’t need them.  Me strong like bull.  But that first night, I was such a basket case, I thought… what could it hurt, just this once.

I slept the sleep of the dead, people!  I woke up for the first time in a very, very long time feeling well-rested.  It was a miracle!  Over the past three weeks, I’ve taken seven more of the lovely little white pills.  I have two left and I am hoarding them like Smeagol hoarded the magical One Ring.  I sit with my two little pills in their little pill bottle and rock back and forth saying “Precious, precious Xanax.  Master wants the precious but cannot have it.  We mustn’t let her have the precious.”

Taking seven Precious Xanax pills over the past few weeks has proven to me one thing:  without a shadow of a doubt, the sleep deprivation is my biggest problem.  When I sleep and wake up rested, I have energy.  When I have energy, I feel better.  When I feel better, I get things done, I don’t get overwhelmed or anxious.  I cope. 

I need me some sleep, man.  Do you know anyone on the street who’s pushing it?  I’ll pay any price.  No, you don’t understand - I GOTTA HAVE ME SOME SLEEP!

I don’t know what the answer is.  Xanax is obviously not it, for precious as it is, I don’t need to replace one problem with another.  I told my husband the other night that since I was taking a fucking pharmacy worth of drugs already, what’s one more pill, right?  Maybe I should go for the Lunesta stuff - their commercials are lovely (well, except for the possible liver trauma, the diarrhea, night sweats, hair loss, swollen earlobes, and other sundry side effects that they glaze over really quickly and somewhat quietly at the end of the ad).

Here’s the plan:

I get a sleep aid.  I start feeling better.

My house gets cleaned.  My job is done well.  My husband is sexually content. 

The weight drops off.

I can get off the Metformin, the blood pressure meds, the cholesterol meds, and the sleep meds.  

I can slowly back away from the Wellbutrin, real quiet like so it doesn’t notice I’m leaving (we don’t want to upset the Wellbutrin, right?) 

Next thing you know, I’m skinny, well-rested and drug-free.  All the money I save in prescription co-pays is diverted to feed the starving children of the world and to provide them with bug-repellent. 

With all my extra time and my phenomenal success story, I run for Ms. Old America (there must be a pageant like that, right?) and write a book and go on a speaking tour.  Everyone loves a good “I used to be fat…” story, right?

I don’t know about you, but I think it sounds like a fabulous plan.  Oh, I do realize that one lone Cheddar Bay biscuit or a single red Skittle could send me spiraling back to the depths of despair, ruining the whole plan. 

But the journey of a thousand miles begins with one little yellow pill.  Right?  One good night sleep?  One pound lost?  One happy day?  One ray of hope.

I see what needs to be done.
I feel hopeful, once again, that I can do it.
I need to succeed.

Maybe the counselor is onto something….