Change Of Plans

Due to health reasons, I had to cancel my mother’s attendance for the therapy session on Friday and it will just be a normal appointment for me. My mum had been sick last week already and even though she’s not bedridden anymore, she’s not 100% either. Nor am I, and if being honest, I’m secretly relieved about the turn of events: there are so many other things on my plate that I’d like to discuss with my therapist before my mother joins us – last Friday, for example. Also, I’m going to have a friend visiting all weekend long, and regardless of whether our joint session leads to a long amicable discussion or a long argument between my mother and me, I would need a lot of time for that…

I’ve been put on the sick list for the rest of the week because of a stomach bug myself. There are three general physicians who share the practice I go to; some of the patients only see one of them, others – like me – go to whoever has the first slot available that day. So I ended up with the same doctor as back when I fainted on my way to work and broke down crying in the practice (check the “Pre-Treatment Diary” for the entry of October 19, 2010). He’d urged me very much to find a therapist then, which was just the extra encouragement I needed to actually call the hospital three weeks later.
The memory of losing my composure last time, even though more than a year in the past, embarrassed me a little, but fortunately the doctor didn’t ask any questions about it. He had my file already open when I walked in and thus doubtlessly was reminded of the incident, as well as my stint with citalopram and the fact that I get a referral for psychotherapy from them every three months. He was especially nice, though – a kind of cordiality that goes beyond good manners and agreeable behaviour. It reminded me a little of my therapist. There was nothing he could do about the stomach bug (“That just takes a couple of days to get through.”), but he did inquire about university and I told him about changing to geosciences.

The doctor actually asked me how long I wanted to stay home and despite really being sick, I feel a little guilty for making it the whole week. Not that attending classes would do me any good, and thus (as my therapist would say) there’s no reason to even debate the matter.
It’s more than the stomach bug, though. I’m constantly tired – Christmas break didn’t do much to change that. In fact, only the last two nights I managed going to bed and falling asleep at a decent hour, following several weeks with insomnia.

Not to mention that I have been missing my boyfriend insanely. Now that we can actually count down to the day he’s arriving and almost reached a single digit number of days left until our reunion, it’s worse than all those last months. Like the last mile of a marathon: you know you are almost there, but because you’re so close to the finish line, you just want to be done with it and let go of all the self-discipline which got you so far. Every single step makes you ache more, every muscle is sore, every breath laboured. I just want to be at the airport gate and wrap my arms around him, and then the world may end.

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