Finding a happy place

So I've spent two of the last seven days on vacation and the other five having my quarterly nervous breakdown.  I'm still in the middle of that, actually.  I'll let you know how it turns out.  The vacation is over, on the other hand–a simple affair, not much to report, but I feel obligated nonetheless.

We took a leisurely drive to the central Oregon coast, stopped in Depoe Bay for lunch at a cafe that served breakfast all day–or until they closed at 2 p.m. anyway.  On trips like this Sugar Daddy and I like to eat things we wouldn't ordinarily be offered in suburban Portland, and we were feeling lucky that day, so we both opted for a shrimp omelet (with Hollandaise sauce–believe me, it makes all the difference).  We survived that experience and went on to enjoy, in a manner of speaking, several hours at the aquarium in Newport.  Who knew anyone could spend several hours at an aquarium?  I'm still marveling that we did it.  The coolest part of the aquarium was the Deep Sea Tunnel, or whatever it's called, where you walk through this big glass tube and the sharks are swimming all around you.  Yes, real sharks, but not really big ones, so it's kind of a rip-off in that respect, but then, what do you expect for $11.25 per person?  There was also, for some reason, a huge bat exhibit.  Look, I told you I don't know why; all I know is it was there.  All in all, Sugar Daddy put it best:  "I didn't think it was all that.  But it might have been a bag of chips."

SD didn't want to pay the premium for a coastal hotel, so we drove out to Albany to spend the night.  Yes, scenic Albany, Oregon.  We stayed at the Phoenix Inn, which is conveniently located next door to a 24-hour "Adult Shop."  I told you it was scenic.

The next morning we drove to Eugene, spent an hour and a half at the equally scenic public pool with our buddies, ordered take-out at the only good Mexican restaurant in Oregon, and spent the evening shooting the breeze with the other adults and ignoring the pleas of our children to go home already, for crying out loud.  Good times.

When I got back I had my second visit with my new therapist.  As some of you know already, it was hard for me to break down and see a dentist I go to church with, but now I'm seeing a therapist whose secretary I go to church with, and I hardly blink an eye while I'm there.  (Speaking of the dentist, I finally saw Dr./Brother A last week, and he reassured me that he does not discuss the state of his fellow ward members' mouths with his wife–a scenario I hadn't really considered, but now it seems rather a shame that he doesn't, since he says I have great teeth.  He told me I didn't have to come in for another year, but that another six years would probably be pushing it.) 

So my therapist didn't quiz me on anything this time, but she did ask me to do a "safe place" exercise with her.  I'm really no good at this sort of thing.  In college my Psych 101 professor did this visualization exercise with us where we were supposed to close our eyes and pretend we were floating on a cloud and basking in the serenity of it all, but I just couldn't get there.  I closed my eyes, and in my mind I was on the cloud, but I kept falling off.  Not terribly relaxing.  When I was pregnant with Mister Bubby, I went to my church ladies' auxiliary meeting, and this good sister was teaching a class on stress management and had us picturing ourselves walking down a staircase carrying heavy suitcases, then putting our suitcases down and opening a door and walking into the Happiest Place in the World.  Afterwards, she asked people where they'd gone, and she got responses like, "Oh, I was at my grandmother's house, and she was baking cookies," and "I was in a peaceful meadow filled with wildflowers," and "I was walking on a sandy beach, etc. etc."  And I remember hoping at the time that she wouldn't call on me because I had been in bed.  In a room with no windows and no doors.  It was a happy place, but not one I would have wanted to share with the group.

So I did the "safe place" exercise with my therapist, and you know, it was a typical visualization exercise with typical results–I was in a place, I was safe, blah blah.  Then it was time to leave the safe place, and I had to choose an object to take with me, and that is now my psychological portal to the safe place any time I need to go there.  Yeah, I don't really think I'll be going back that often.  I'm a little too self-conscious, even in the privacy of my own mind, to effectively transport myself to an imaginary world, particularly when I "need" to. 

I'm reminded, however, of the list of "affirmations" my midwife gave to me near the end of my pregnancy with Elvis.  Stuff like "My body is strong," "My body was designed to give birth," "I will use this pain to help my baby be born," etc. etc.  The day before I went into labor, SD had shared with me an article about competitive eating, a pastime neither of us fully understands, but we find it perversely fascinating nonetheless.  Anyway, I was at the hospital, being in labor, and at one point during a contraction I facetiously said, "My body was designed to give birth," or something similar, and SD whispered into my ear, "I can eat a thousand hot dogs."  Which was funny enough the first couple times, but once I was in transition, he really had to shut up.  I digress.

The bottom line is that I have been assigned to go to a psychiatrist or mental health nurse practitioner to discuss my medication options because the Zoloft, jacked up as it is, is not cutting the mustard.  I really hate seeing mental health professionals for the first time.  I think what gives me the creeps is that they're so calm and dispassionate, and you can be telling them all kinds of horrifying things about yourself, but they never react.  I almost wish they would occasionally say something like, "Really?  Wow!" or "No kidding.  How nuts is that?"  But no, they just sit there, like they've heard it all before and nothing can shock them.  It makes me feel kind of silly.

Six more days until school starts.  I have a feeling that advent will be worth at least 100 mg of Zoloft in itself.