The blog voice.

There are times when I feel this tongue in cheek blog voice at the ready, capable of flowing everything together, and making everything seem important, if not meaningful.

I tend to pick up my metal bat and BASH HIM THE HELL DOWN, and write.

I guess I have a fear of sounding clever or slick on this blog, because I am neither, nor do I feel like I'm either.  I am a pretty decent writer, though, and would rather that be the case then be pushed into the masses of sitcom-episode blogs out there, that have poignant, yet meaningful messages to pass on to today's lost souls.

Actually, I don't think I've read any blogs like that.  Maybe they're not real.  And, well, its not like anyone is really reading this blog.

I guess I could throw hands up for solidarity among the lost souls.  I AM ONE OF YOU!!!  But then we'd just all wander off.

I look back at what I wrote and wonder: is this how a hipster is born?  Nah.  I'm not ironic in anything.  Pretty real.  And I am not an expert in anything either.

But on to current news...  I have started a therapy program called DBT.  That stands for Dialectical Behavior Therapy, and I am still on the fence about it.  Mind you, I've only been to two classes, and one of them was orientation.  But this therapy group was a long time coming for me.

It was the suggestion of my Psychiatrist during my second stint in the psych ward(in May).  Actually, he really didn't give me much choice in the matter, and I had called my therapist to talk about it.  Because of a voicemail snafu(Thank you ever so much, T-Mobile!), I heard that my therapist had agreed with the treatment before even talking to me.  The truth has a way of sitting at the side, waiting to be brought on, though.  And I never brought it on.  So DBT became synonymous with "I have no control over what happens to me."

But I signed up.  And there was a SIX MONTH WAITING LIST.  Because that's how mental health works.  It goes dormant for six months, and only shows up when they can see you to treat them.

That's not fair, I know.  People work hard, my mother being one of them.  Its less about the people actually helping, and more about the people sitting behind desks, wondering how mental health could be more profitable.

So, I am waiting, and it turns out, another snafu.  Not T-Mobile's fault this time.  Turns out no one actually sent Portland DBT my materials!  Weeks of figuring it out, and I am registered.  And I get a call that I am registered.  I am offered an early class without a therapist.  That would come later.

And only at that point do I realize that once I am in the main program, I have to give up my therapist... the one who started seeing me a few months after my radiation treatment, up until now.

If you haven't read my blog before(welcome!), I have trouble with any sort of healthcare personnel.  It took me months with him to start trusting and opening up, even a little.  But with that trust comes that super strong mentally ill adhesive, that, if pulled away, leaves quite a bit of pain and suffering.

This was a big part of psych ward stay #3, as my therapist knew that he wouldn't see me during DBT, and DIDN'T TELL ME.

That's the drama.  Its quite a bit of mistrust, and a whole hell of a lot of anxiety.  I haven't decided where I land on the whole thing, but I'll give you updates.

One solemn promise is that no matter how brainlessly converted I come to this program, I will not fill up these posts with DBT crap.  I want it to be helpful, but I don't like shoving anything down anyone else's throat.

In other news, I didn't just see an ex-coworker, but she sat down on the train with me.  Stacey.  Thank GOD it was Stacey.  I was so fucking anxious, but she was very accommodating, and even ignored how much I was overamping.  I was trying way too hard, stuttering over everything.  She was surprised this was the first time I had bumped into a coworker on the train.  I am too, but so damned thankful.

I take transit everywhere.  And people get confused, ask me "I thought you were anxious around people?"  I am.  I just blast my headphones, and curl up on a seat.  Usually, I am OK.  I don't drive... and certainly would not want to drive even if I could, and I can't afford much except for an honored citizen's bus pass.  That's right.  I'm an Honored Citizen.  A bit like being a part of the Special Peoples' Club.

I think I was the only person who saw Welcome to the Dollhouse.  Heather Matarazzo?  She's now a lesbian, living in New York?

(insert hipster joke here.  Before you post)