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Mommy’s Little Helper

7 Aug

Last week, right before the Auburn Road Rally of 2009, I finally had an appointment with a doctor to discuss my craziness anxiety issues.

After having the ass camera procedure and analyzing (and over-analyzing) my symptoms, I became 99% certain that I have some sort of general anxiety disorder that has been YEARS in the making.

The first time I remember having stomach issues was (surprise!) my first semester of law school. Things gradually got worse and worse until this summer when my stress and anxiety peaked and the stomach issues got so bad that I turned in to a hermit.

When I found out that I’d have to wait two weeks between my colonoscopy and my doctor’s appointment, my anxiety got so bad that I thought I’d have to stay in the confines of my house until the appointment. When the appointment finally arrived, I was convinced of my ailment and what I needed for it: pills.

Going in to the appointment, I was certain that I was going to come off as some addict that was begging for drugs. How do I tell him what’s wrong without it sounding like, “Give me Valium! Nom nom nom!!”?

When I sat down with the doctor, he quickly put me at ease. I mean, he wasn’t hard to look at either…


Sorry, Mr. Bee. You know that smart, nerdy white dudes do it for me.

I was even offered an “annual exam” since I am behind in my womanly maintenance (otherwise known as “Yippee! I get to have my cervix scraped off today!”), but I quickly made a new rule that men, especially cute nice men, who aren’t my husband are not allowed in my vaginal region.

Okay, so that’s not exactly a NEW rule, but I have never really thought to apply it to doctors until recently. Is it weird that if the doctor had been some mean troll of a guy, I probably wouldn’t have had a problem with it?

Anywho, so Dr. McDreamy progressed to a dialog about my symptoms, every couple of minutes suggesting another physical ailment that could be the cause. Every time, I countered with, “yeah, but it really seems to happen when I’m stressed and/or anxious about something…”

He thinks I’m a druggie. He TOTALLY thinks I’m a druggie.

Off he would go with another medical rationale to explain my symptoms. “But it’s way more sporadic that that…I really think it might be anxiety related…”

Fuck, why did I have to dress up today. He totally thinks I’m some Housewives of South King County needing her fix…

Eventually, he came up with three options, the first of which was “You know that you don’t have something like cancer that is going to kill you so you could just learn to deal with it and not take anything for it.”

Uh, yeah. SO not an option.

Oh my god. He totally thinks I’m a druggie now. Am I acting like I’m begging for drugs? I feel like I’m begging for drugs. Shit. He’s probably going to call security now…

The next option is taking something on a need-to-take basis for anxiety.

Hmmm…well, yeah, I guess that could work…

Haha. Sucker. I totally don’t sound like a druggie now.

Shit, unless I’m a totally bad actress and that’s what druggie’s would say when they are trying to get their next fix.

Well, you get the idea. Basically I felt like some weirdo pleading for drugs, but hell, in the end I got some Xanax, so I guess I actually legitimately need it. Who knew?

So I am officially lumping myself in to that category of people. You know, the Pill Poppers. But you know what is really interesting?

During this whole process, I was really fighting against having to take medication for a problem that seems to be mentally associated. I didn’t want to be one of those people that have to take medication because that would mean that something was WRONG with me.

And you know what I discovered? When I started talking openly to people about my issues, practically everyone I know has taken some sort of anxiety medication or anti-depressant in their lives (and/or still does). This complex we give ourselves about how taking an anti-depressant must mean we’re broken or all alone with our problems is totally false!

Not only am I happier and less stressed now that I have something I can take when I need to, I realized that women I have known for years have needed to do to the same thing!

Not only am I helping myself, but I hope I’m helping those women, too, by being open about what I’m going through and saying, you know what? It’s okay that we need a little help.

And it’s REALLY okay to ask for help when you need it.

Song title: Mommy’s Little Helper by The Rolling Stones

A Beautiful Mistake

6 Jul

I’ve got good news and bad news.

The good news is that it turns out that my colonoscopy is scheduled for NEXT week, not THIS week.

The bad news is that I have to get a camera ceremoniously (I assume that it will have some sort of pomp and circumstance involved) shoved up my ass next week.

And not that I’m trying to get out of it or anything, but I’m 95% sure that I’ve pinned down my tummy issues to one small little word:


While talking through my butt issues with my family (because what else would we talk about over dinner, really?), I realized that all my butt issues began roughly (pun intended) when I began law school. A little stressful, yes?

Over the last eight years (excuse me while I throw up in my mouth a bit) since starting graduate school, my tummy issues have progressed from “Oh, that’s a little ouchy” to “OMFG this is Fucking Ridiculous as Fuck!!”

And in the last few months, with Mr. Bee’s health issues and the Little Bee transitioning not so gracefully in to the terrible, nay, HORRIFIC Two’s, I think we can all agree that my stress level has risen.

Who are we kidding, it has shot through the fucking roof.

So hopefully in a few weeks (or next week? **fingers crossed**) I might be poppin’ some happy pills.

But that’s a topic for another day.

Song title: A Beautiful Mistake by Ataris