Did I tell you about that time a couple of months ago when I went and got a sleep test done? I think I did because I kind of remember saying something about all the wires and I thought I was a robot or something. If I wasn't super fucking lazy I would go search for the post and then say something like, "You can find the post HERE!" and then I would link to it but I am actually that lazy so if you're really interested you're just going to have to search for it or remember or not care. I'm with you on the third choice. Because, really, all you need to know is there was a sleep test and I use the term "sleep" very loosely because I was hooked up to seventy thousand wires and there was very little actual "sleep" to be had. Basically it was an awake test.
I finally had my appointment this week where they gave me the results they could have easily given me over the phone and saved me booking time off work and paying for parking and waiting in a hospital waiting room for half an hour which is unpleasant enough at the best of times, but made even more unpleasant when you're waiting in the waiting room of a respiratory clinic where the majority of the people there have actual respiratory problems which mostly involve wheezing and coughing up shit into Kleenexes.
I, however, do not have a respiratory problem which took the sleep doctor for whom I waited 2 months and 30 phlem-filled minutes to see, literally 45 seconds to tell me.
Which is good I guess because I don't have to wear a mask or sleep with an oxygen tank or anything but he also confirmed what I pretty much knew all along which is that my problem with sleep - and also, by my own self-diagnoses, with being awake - is anxiety and over thinking and not being to turn off the thoughts that constantly fill my slightly neurotic brain.
"So, great! What's my next step? Who do you recommend?"
"Oh, we don't do that here."
"You don't? What do you do then?"
"Not that. You'll have to go to your family doctor."
So I did. And now she's recommending me to someone. And this someone, who I will see in two weeks, will be the third psychiatrist I've seen for my anxiety.
The last guy, you may remember, I lost complete faith in after he gave me the sound advice of "trying to stay away from heroin". Or you may not remember. Unfortunately I can't even link to this one as it was part of my "posting my blog on Facebook" purge. Too bad, because if I remember correctly it was pretty hilarious.
The guy before that was about eighty seven years old probably and based his form of therapy on the theory that people with anxiety had giant self esteem issues, and if you didn't actually have giant self esteem issues but still had anxiety you were basically fucked because he didn't have a clue what to do you. So then you paid $100 an hour to listen to him tell you all about the restaurant him and his wife went to where they served shredded beef on a bun and it was really good and you should go try it sometime and, oh, is there still 15 minutes left? Well, why don't you me about some good shredded beef on a bun places that you enjoy. Do you enjoy shredded beef on a bun?
So, I'm really hoping that this new therapist works out. Because last night, after deciding on a topic to write a short story about and writing it in my head and then trying to figure out - again - how my marriage went wrong and then figuring out what I would wear and eat and do the next day, and then wondering what my life would be like if I had kids and what their names would be and what if they were teenagers now and would I really want to end my life because I think that I would if I had a teenager, I managed to convince myself there were spiders in my bed and they were biting me.
So I'm pretty tired.
In my defense though I'm pretty sure something bit me. At least twice.
And it could have been a spider.
Don't judge me.