After a particularly hard therapy session last night, I called The Big H this morning to see what the fuck their problem is. Except I asked a little bit nicer than that, but only by much. They still couldn't tell me anything except that they are sending letters out as they go and that all letters should be out by the end of this month, and that my letter hasn't been sent yet.
At least they didn't say they expect to let everyone know by August. That's kind of what I've been thinking, anyway. Fuckers.
Back to therapy - we talked about Waiting. Waiting has a particularly rocky past with me. Its not just that I tend to be impatient (yes, both with myself and with others), its that I've learned what waiting means. To me. For others, waiting for something important can be exciting, or fun or just normal or not anything. Because of my past experiences, waiting for something important means something bad is coming that you don't understand and can't do anything about and that will ruin everything. I have a hard time letting that go. And an even harder time accepting that its a problem for me.
So, my father died 7 years ago, as of this coming Monday, May 23rd. And its been the cause of lots of difficulties for me, emotionally and physically. And I hate to play that game (yes, I think its a game) where I blame all my problems on my father dying while both of us were at a young age, relatively speaking. But sometimes, even I can see the connections. And here's one of them. Waiting. I spent three of my teenage years waiting for something to happen. Waiting with my dad at his chemo appointments. Waiting at traffic lights on the way home while he puked into a cardboard bucket with the hospital logo on it. Waiting for my mom to tell me what the doctors had said this time. Waiting for some test result or another. Waiting to see which clinical trial he'd be booted from this time.
And then, I spent nine days in the hospital waiting for him to die. And after that, waiting go home. Waiting to wake up from my stupor. Waiting to see whether or not my mom would kill herself. Waiting to see if I would. Waiting for the panic attacks to stop. Waiting for my throat to unclench so that I could eat something, after losing so much weight that my best friend got scared. Waiting for the tranquilizers to kick in. Waiting to wake up so the nightmares would stop. Waiting to fall asleep, even with the nightmares, so that the panic would stop.
To me, waiting equals uncertainty, death and trouble. I can't shake it. And I need to learn how, just as I learned how to make the panic stop and the nightmares stop and life begin again. So, waiting, you just wait.
And once again, fuck you, The Big H, for making it worse. For taking this particular time of year to fuck with me, when goodness knows, now is NOT the time.