Don't-Need-Therapy-Happy and Want-to-Punch-Somebody Mad

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of this week were some of the most awesome days I've had in a long time.  Unexpectedly summer-like weather, a new wading pool, and great friends contributed to a real high in my moods on those days.  I would wrack my brain and seriously not be able to think of a single thing that could possibly get me down. 

I was don't-need-therapy-happy. 

On therapy: I spent two years of my life going to talk therapy, 2008 to 2010.  A lot of people are anti-therapy, and think therapy is self-indulgent, but I truly think it helped me.  I read somewhere, in a study that I'm not thorough enough to look up or cite here, that talking produces serotonin in the brain, which is the chemical needed to fight depression.  So you see, therapy is not just a bunch of BS.

Besides, everybody should have a therapist like the one I had, who I will refer to by her initials, GMR.  She was like a combination of your mom and your best friend, and she always took your side, even if your problems were dumb and petty.  I really think everybody should get an hour a week to talk about their problems, especially moms who are suddenly forced into a role where they believe their feelings don't matter anymore. 

I always felt better after I visited GMR.  For approximately my first year with her, I was mostly just talking about depression.  Depression seemed endless, that bitch.  At about my one-year anniversary with GMR, after a lot of lifestyle changes, I finally got into a happier groove.  I liked going to GMR and feeling like she gave me little pats on the back and gold stars for all the minor things I was doing to improve my life.  I would plan my daily actions around what I thought GMR would approve of. 

The trouble with GMR was that she had two different offices, and she was only at the office near me one day a week, from noon to 8 p.m.  It was hard for me to squeeze in time to see her at that office, so I agreed to make the trek to her other office, which was 30 minutes away.  As my mental health improved, this drive seemed less and less worth it.  Around our two-year anniversary, I was starting to feel like I was driving an hour round-trip and paying a $40 co-pay just to sit there and chew the fat.  It was time to end it with GMR. 

Breaking up is hard to do, but I experienced a stroke of luck because GMR said she was going to retire soon.  On our last day, she told me it had truly been her pleasure to work with somebody like me who was committed to improvement, and I swear she teared up a little.  Worst brag ever: I made my therapist cry tears of joy. 

I didn't find a new therapist, because I figured I had graduated from therapy.  In our parting shots, GMR and I discussed discussed the fact that being a therapist was like raising a child: your goal was to mold somebody to not need you.  And I figured that I didn't need GMR or anybody else.

It took me approximately 7 months, not until January of this year, to realize that I had experienced an increased number of episodes of depression since quitting therapy.  And so I decided my New Year's Resolution should be to find a new therapist. 

Like all New Year's Resolutions, I didn't keep that one. 

And then on May 12, I decided I was don't-need-therapy-happy.  I know this was a falsely-inflated mood due to weather and excitement over summer plans.  I don't think I will finish out 2011 without ever getting sad again.  And so I don't know if I will ever go back to therapy again.  I don't have any conclusions here. 

Today I experienced a low, but not a go-back-to-therapy-low.  This was more one of those lows that happens to women from time to time, that time specifically being every 28 days, give or take. 

I wanted to punch somebody all day.  I rode my bike this morning at the park and it was nearly impossible to make it 30 minutes, with the headache and general agitation that I was experiencing.  Oh, look at that mom pushing boy-girl newborn twins who are adorably, uterus-twingingly cute sleeping in their half-pink, half-blue double stroller!  Ugh, the mom is already so skinny!  I hate her!  And why is that jerk smoking while walking laps at the park?  Who does that?!  I hate him too! Why can't all these dumbasses just get out of my way?  Oh wait, they did get out of my way!  Well, I'm not saying thank you. 

And so I decided I needed to dedicate every ounce of energy and time I had for the rest of the day toward the achievement of two goals: (1) Make it through the day without harming another human being, and (2) Stay within my allotted Weight Watchers point range despite my premenstrual desire to go on a carb bender. 

Two good goals, one a selfless goal for the good of humanity, and one a bit more personal.  Goal 1 was actually pretty easy to achieve; I just had to avoid everybody else for the rest of the day.  Except for my kid, who of course I wouldn't harm, but seriously, kid, the word mom does not contain four syllables, and please, for the love of God, is it asking too much that when I'm on my hands and knees picking your crumbs off the floor, that you not use my back as a foot rest? 

The crumbs were from some chocolate muffins I made using a recipe from Hungry Girl.  You mix together a package of devil's food cake mix and a 15-oz can of pumpkin, and bake in a muffin tin for 20 minutes at 400 degrees.  At 5 Weight Watcher points it was a little bit steep, but it was a really big and chocolatey muffin, and I just planned the rest of my eating around it. 

I also planned my eating around a 4-point mocha Frapucchino.  See, there's a chocolate theme.  And then I went and bought a $20 bottle of Voli Lyte vodka, which had been recommended at Weight Watchers, and mixed it with Crystal Light raspberry ice flavor, which is a drink that up to that point probably hadn't been consumed outside of a trailer park in the mid-1980s.

So, bottom line, by skimping on actual nutrients and instead focusing on liquids and empty calories, I made it through the day. 

And the purpose of this post was not to say that I have come to any profound conclusions about my mental health, but rather to juxtapose two accounts of emotions that can be described using over-hyphenated modifiers. 

The end.