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Part of the review process at the sleep disorder clinic was an appointment with a psychiatrist. Before I could be admitted to the program it needed to be confirmed that I sometimes feel sad and blue because I am tired because of the sleeping issues, and not that I suffer from depression which causes sleepiness and lethargy in some people. So I met with the psychiatrist and we talked about how I sleep and the problems I have and the triggers I have identified. At the end of our appointment, the psychiatrist told me that I would be accepted into the program (happy face!) She also told me that when I am finished with the sleep disorder program, perhaps I should consider treatment for my anxiety disorder which she feels is unrelated to my sleeping issues but is obviously having a negative effect on my quality of life. And then I cried a little because I hadn't spoken to the psychiatrist about my anxiety. Sure she's a medical professional trained to identify mental illness, but I couldn't help feeling exposed. I thought I was quirky and maybe a little high-strung but after spending only one hour with the psychiatrist she could see that I am crazy.
Crazy: a word I use to describe myself to diminish the impact it has when others use it against me; a word that now feels tainted and wrong coming out of my mouth.
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I wanted to talk about TequilaCon and how fun it was and how fantastic it was to meet people I've long thought were rad, only to find out that they are ten times as rad in person as they are on the internet. I wanted to talk about how proud I am of myself for going to a pub, alone, to meet up with a group of people who aren't strangers but the majority of whom I've never met before. I wanted to tell you about the giggles and the mooosetashes and the poutine and instead I'm all angsty and wrapped up in my own head. I blame the rain.