(From VDog: Today I have an anonymous rant for you as part of the betchfest. Let's show this blogger some love!)
These are some of the things I can’t say on my own blog. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to betch about the snotty gal at work who was my boss last year and who is my equal this year (Hey, you stupid asshole! I’m not trying to intimidate you so stop being such a fuckwad.) or the jerk who recently pulled a fast one on me and acted like a baby and wouldn’t own up to it (Hi. Pick up the phone and call me like a man, you pussy.) and then I realized that this is something I’ve been wanting to say. It’s not as soap opera like, but it’s real and messy nonetheless.
When I walked into the office to talk to the doctor I came prepared. A notebook that I’d been keeping for the past several months. A new notebook, in fact. Usually I choose something with a pretty cover and thick pages because writing is so fun with a good pen. This one was plain and everything was scribbled in my messy handwriting. Like personalities, my handwriting takes on different forms. This one, if it had a name, was something harsh and disoriented and if you said the name aloud it would even hurt your ears. An ugly name for an ugly notebook. Yet, I clutched that motherfucker for dear life. It held my secrets like a litany for a church. Litany may be the wrong word, but it was, nonetheless, a tedious recitation of what shit had gone down for the last several months.
Good afternoon, how are we doing today?” he said when he walked in the room. The words all ran together like it was what he said every time he entered the room to take care of a patient: goodafternoonhowarewedoingtoda
“We? What a stupid fucking pronoun, doc. I’m not here for a head cold. Jesus. Compassion much?”
My voice, of course, found it’s normal make-sure-everyone-thinks-you’
“Well, sorta fine. Not really. I have a list.”
He found his way to the rolling chair with no back support and looked intently at me waiting for me to tell him why I’d come in his office.
“Well, fuck. Here we go. No use trying to keep it from him. GOD I HATE THIS.”
“I’m not functioning well. Something’s wrong and I’m finally coming in for help. I’ve written it down and I need you to be patient…” I suddenly trailed off because these stealth juicy fat tears welled up in my eyes and there was no way I could breath, suck back tears, and explain why I had made a doctor’s appointment. He wheeled around for a tissue and I dabbed my eyes.
“I’d think with all those goddammed pharmaceutical reps out there you could get some DECENT TISSUES THAT DON’T SCRATCH MY CORNEAS.”
He said he understood, but I wondered how that was possible. He hadn’t even heard my list yet.
“Ok.” I flipped to a page in my notebook and read it to him. Sometimes I managed to look up at him to check his interest but I knew my posture was slinking in this chair. Maybe it wasn’t my posture. Could the chair be eating me? Was it sucking me through the bottom cushion in order to save me from this humiliation? In that case, thank heavens for this blissful seat that will keep me from spilling my guts to a man who wanted to know how “we” were doing. He and I? I suppose we’re ok. He’s a medical doctor and I’m a woman and together I guess we are, in this moment, ok. Ok. How is he, though? Absent from me? Well, shit. He’s a doctor. He walked in this room upright and probably had a good lunch so I’ll go with He’s ok, too. But me? I was another story altogether. I hate my current vulnerability so, you know what? I’m not ok.
“In the last eight months I finished a degree, left my marriage, moved out and got my own apartment, got a promotion at work, started a new side job, and I have been unable to sleep through the night for the past three weeks.”
The words hung there in the air. I shoved them out of my mouth and repositioned my ass in this seat that was swallowing me whole and found that I might actually be able to sit up straight now that I said it.
I just can’t say it on my own blog.