keeping me sane

03-01-00

John left early today for a fun-filled trip to Alabama, and I ended up getting out of bed with him at 7:30. I surfed around for a while, looking for a new job. I'm hoping to start a new job right after I get back from Michigan. Chances that that will happen aren't so great, really, since I'd have to have the job secured before I go, and, oh, that would just be a pain to organize. But we'll see.

After job-searching for about 3 hours, I sat on the couch for a long time, getting ready to do something today. After an hour or so I really started to stress out about wasting my precious day off. I mean, really stress out. I wig out more easily when John's out of town. I also started my period today, so there was a major hormone festival going on in my apartment. I'm sure the cats thought I was insane. I went to pay the rent and asked a simple question. A stupid question, really. I asked if the deposit for a keycard to the weight room is refundable. It's not. That and the fact that it's $60 for married couples and only $50 for single people made me simultaneously depressed and furious. No, I don't know why. I told the woman that I only wanted one, since my husband would never use it. (I happen to know that if we ever worked out together, or if he wanted to go alone, we would only need one card. I used Rob's card for the first month I was here.) She said we really need to have two, so we can go to the pay-per-view events in the "the-AY-ter." Whatfuckingever. That's when I asked if it was refundable, and she said no, so I said never mind then, thanks anyway.

I don't know why it made me so upset. I completely freaked out when I got home, pacing and everything. I think, sometimes, I hear dogs barking, even when I can't hear them. My whole world is about dogs barking. With John gone, I like to sit in my apartment and turn the computer off at the switch so it doesn't hum, and I turn off the heat and the TV and the stereo, and I listen to the closest thing to silence that I can get.

Okay, that last paragraph is a clear indication that I am insane.

I took two letters to be mailed and went out. On the way to the base gym, I stopped at Publix to buy stamps. Publix differs from the store where I worked last year in that their customer service counter doesn't have a postage machine. Asking was an honest mistake on my part. I had only $5 on me, so I asked for 10 stamps. Uh-uh. Publix only sells stamps in books. So I left.

Again, no reason for me to wig out. But I did. I hyperventilated in the Publix parking lot, over a fucking book of stamps. I started to drive to the base, but I turned around and went home, so as to have my breakdown in my own living room. I spent an hour there, doing something that should have been done half a year ago. I made an appointment with a therapist.

Want to know the channels you have to go through to get medical attention in the military? I guess it's like any other managed-care plan; I've heard the military coverage called the worst HMO ever. Here's what I did:

• Checked my phone number magnet and called "general appointments." There's nothing else it could have been under. They directed me to call:
• Something called Behavioral, I think. I did, and they asked "psychiatric or counseling?" I told them counseling and they made me call:
• the counseling clinic. Where I was told they only help active duty servicemen, and as a dependent (there's that WORD again,) I have to get a referral and go off-base. I called the number they gave, and was put on hold for
• Referrals. They put me through to
• a "clinician." That person explained everything to me, how much it costs ($10 per visit—pretty sweet for therapy, huh?) what to do, everything. I love Celine the clinician. Yay for Celine. She gave me a list of doctors in my area, and I needed to call one, make an appointment, and then call back with the info. So I called
• my counselor of choice. Let me pause here and tell you that for each and every step of the way, every fucking phone call, I've had to give my name, John's name, both of our social security numbers, my birthdate, John's active duty status, and my reason for calling. Sixteen people in three different states asked me why I sought counseling. That's eight times the number of people who knew I needed it before today. Anyway, I called the counselor and made an appointment, then I called back and got
• Referrals. Again. Candice was nice enough, and asked me for all that info again before putting me
• on hold. This is where I started to get nervous. I had to make the appointment for, like, three weeks from now. By then I'm going to feel like an asshole and cancel it. I wavered for a minute before hanging up and calling
• my second-choice therapist. I'm basing these decisions on proximity to my home. Great strategy, huh? I tried to make an appointment for sooner, but the first date I got was the day after the other appointment. So I weaseled out of that dead end and called
• Referrals. This one's my fault, I know. I shouldn't have hung up, as Candice informed me when she picked up. She put me on hold for
• the clinician. Celine again! Yay! Celine took care of me, and said she'd call the counselor with my insurance authorization numbers and everything. Now I just have to show up.

It's fucking hormones. Hormones. Isn't it? I hate making these appointments; I do it in a fit of emotion, but the appointment comes along six weeks later and my entire mood is changed, and I get all self-conscious about being there and I just say whatever happy-ass thing I have to in order to get out of there. I just need a damn job, is that so hard to get? Why can't I get a damn job, I want a damn job! Fuck Georgia.

I finally did go to work out and I was there forever. I wanted to be super-tired when I got home so I'd be able to go to sleep early and not hate myself when I work tomorrow. I played tennis against the wall for a half-hour, then I did some weight shit and a whole shitload of ab crunches, just because I could. I rode a stationary bike until my ass hurt., and then I left a stupid note on the windshield of Becky's car (she was working the cross-trainer when I left) and I came home. Stopping at Publix, of course.

And THEN, I practiced my horn for a while. Oh, not before I went out doing good deeds—there was a poster for a missing cat at the mailboxes, and later I saw a cat that fit the description, so I had to go BACK to the mailboxes to get the phone number for the guy who missed his cat. I gave him the tip, and he went out scouring the area, then went home and must have checked his caller-ID 'cause he called me back. He said he saw a cat that looked like his, but wasn't. And I'm not sure, but I think he asked me out. He was mumbling and said something about dinner, then said, "but you're probably married and I don't wanna go THERE again..." Bizarre. I would have gone to dinner with him, but I was laughing too hard to hear what he said. We got off the phone, I wished him luck about the cat. I hope he finds it.

I spent the post-practice evening watching shit TV and spoiling my own cats. I've only had a lost cat once in my life (she never came back,) and it was enough for me. I keep nametags on both my cats, even though Fleck doesn't go outside. Julia wanders off and people across the street will call my number, tell me my cat's over there. I feel silly telling them I live right across the street, but it's worth it. Whenever I find pets, I call. Pets are the worst thing in the world to lose. Sometimes my cats are the only things that keep me sane.