December 14, 2007

So, as I said yesterday, I saw the doctor. She's the replacement for my older family doctor, to whom I was grimly resigned to stick with rather than trust myself to clinics & the ER. One of the worst parts about seeing her was how kind she was, how compassionate. She looked me right in the eye and told me how sorry she was. I was afraid going in that I would be told that I wasn't feeling depression, but grief (which doesn't require a prescription); I was relieved that she took me seriously. The other bad part was her advanced pregnancy; she was so clearly young and energetic and just about to get to the really good parts in life that it made me feel 1) used up 2) hopeless 3) that my life was over. I coped with this by bursting into tears during the first sentence, and not stopping until the appointment was over. My stoicism is apparently overrated.

Ladies and gentlemen of the listening audience: please don't fight with each other. This is my biased, subjective account of my marital problems; no doubt if the Boy had kept a public journal you would feel just as much sympathy for him as me. Maybe more. So although I appreciate the tremendous amount of support I've been shown lately, it needs to stay friendly. Or it needs to be taken to the mud-wrestling arena, with bikinis and trash talk for all. One or the other.

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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*