Next week, I start going to therapy. Because of the Byzantine rules of Big University, through which we have our insurance, The Husband must go with me (most of the time) and we must do this as "couple's Therapy", but it's really for me.
You see, the paper bag is hovering near my head. The black chasm has opened a few yard away from me. I'm aware enough to know that when I think about killing myself, down to methods and means, more than a couple times a week, it's a signal.
Not that I would. Don't fret that. I have no particular desire to shuffle off this mortal coil. It's those damned demons in the chorus who keep making the suggestions. Bastards. Besides, I have a strong belief that when I do move along, I'll be coming back to learn some more, so if I cut class, I'll just have to make it up later. Feh. Nope, not going to do that.
Anyway, so now I'm going in once a week to reveal all my deep dark secret to a thin woman with lesbian hair and matching t-shirt/sock combinations. Actually, I like her, but there's no fun in it if I can't mock. She's not a doctor, she's a counselor and social worker, which makes me feel better -- at least I'm not that bad off. They can give me to someone who works part time. If I decide on anti-depressants, I can talk to a doctor at the clinic (probably the same one who prescribed the anti-inflammatory pills for my wonky knees, which seem to be working.)
The Husband is reasonably interested in this therapy, too. That's good. Again, it isn't that we are about to go separate directions. He and I agree on this -- prevention is a lot less stress than damage control. So this is preventative and perhaps improving.
Of course, the demon chorus is not that happy about it. Annoying dreams -- not disturbing, not upsetting, not nightmares, just annoying dreams where I can't accomplish what I want, which is mostly beating the shit out of someone from my dark, dark past.
Speaking of dark pasts, while working on a Tokyo project yesterday and looking up stuff online, I came across a picture and name familiar to me. It was my 7th grade geography teacher, a man who could not stand me and made me miserable for reasons unfathomable -- I, of course, was in the deepest part of my "please love me, I'm good, I swear" period and wanted all my teachers to like me. Anyway, there he was, 30 years later, and for a minute I imagined writing a letter to him telling him all about what he did and how I felt. Then I moved on to something else and more or less forgot about it. What sticks with me is not this teacher or 7th grade, but that it doesn't matter that much anymore. It's a story in my life, of course, but the emotional part is gone. It Just Doesn't Matter.
Lots of things are like that, which makes the things that Do Matter stand out all the more.