The Year of the Unicorn - Lesson 1: Humans Are Fallible

Last year, I accidentally won a silent auction item which contained a coupon for a free Angel Card reading. You ever participate in a silent auction just because you want to say you participated in a silent auction? That’s how you win Angel Card readings, as it turns out. But I’m super into that kinda thing, so I forgot about it for a few months, suddenly remembered, and then managed to schedule a session with the reader with a couple weeks to spare before the coupon’s expiration date.

We met at a Starbucks where I nervously nursed an iced chai while we discussed my fate for about an hour. I like reading Tarot (if nothing else, it forces a perspective shift and gets me out of negative cyclical thinking patterns), so watching her place the cards in a ring to represent the months of 2019 felt familiar and comforting. The terrifying void of the future seems more tangible and therefore manageable when it’s laid out in a tidy 12 card circle, after all.

That void of 2019 loomed large for me at the time. Painful stuff was happening in my marriage and I felt I had no one to turn to who would understand or be able to help me sort through my own complex feelings. Plus, I didn’t want to hurt my wife by going too public with my hurt and fear. It was a complicated situation. A story for another time, maybe. I don’t think it’s fully my story to tell yet, despite the agonized part of me that wants nothing more than to scream my pain from the rooftops for the sake of my own relief and validation.

Anyway. A nice circle of 12 cards and a single card in the center to represent the overall theme of 2019:

Enchantment.

Enchantment ~ Card Meaning: “Recapture your childlike sense of wonder and awe. View the world as a magical place.” - Healing With The Angels Oracle Card deck, by Doreen Virtue, Ph.D

Golly, I sure do miss having the ability to resize images on this website. Anyhoo. I suppose that just means you get an extra-close look at the Enchantment card, which features everyone’s favorite fictional ungulate, the unicorn (actually, now that I think about it, there’s a pretty long list of mythical creatures with hooves, but are you really going to rank a Minotaur above a unicorn? Trick question. Don’t answer that.).

According to the reader (the very kind and joy-inspiring Karmen Fink), 2019 would be my year to embrace my magic and bring forward the suppressed pieces of myself that had taken the backseat in favor of the serious business of adulthood. In late 2018, my world looked bleak. In 2019, there would be a chance to reclaim some of my lost wonder and joy.

But there are no free lunches, are there?

My freedom and opportunity for joyful, unicorn-powered transformation came at a hell of a cost. My marriage ended in April despite my desperate attempts to save it. My soul feels skewered and I spend most days in a fog, mechanically going through the motions of survival now that the foundations of my future have been yanked from under my feet.

Through all the confusion and suffering, however, I’m learning some lessons and searching for a path through the unknown. I’m living my Year of the Unicorn, and this is the first lesson I’ve managed to digest:

Humans Are Fallible

I’ve known for a long, long time that I am fallible. I review my mistakes to an unhealthy extent and focus more on my shortcomings than my victories. I make a point of bettering myself wherever I can, though I’m not always successful (another shortcoming!). When something goes wrong, my first thought is always: “What did I screw up this time?”

There’s a flip side to fixating solely on my own real or perceived mistakes: I tend to ignore the possibility that other people can mess up too. Kinda self-absorbed of me, to be honest.

This isn’t about me faulting others or transferring blame for the sake of my own ego (though I’ve been guilty of that as well). This is about compassion. This is about not only recognizing that other people can make mistakes, but that empathy and grace should be extended to them despite those mistakes.

People screw up. People fail to think logically. People experience unresolvable internal conflicts that alter their decisions and interactions with the world. I am a being made of oopsie-dammits, and you probably are too.

A mistake by definition is an unintentionally wrong action. Nobody wants to botch a presentation at work or overcook their chicken parm, but these things happen despite our best intentions and most thorough preparations. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a world full of other people who understand that and cut you some slack when you fail?

I’m trying to be a person who does that, and I’ve been on a trajectory toward that mindset since the start of my marital implosion. Instead of fuming over the driver that pulled out in front of me, I cool myself off and consider that it was a lapse in their judgment, and at least we didn’t hit each other. Instead of assuming a server is being rude to me out of spite, I recognize that they’re just trying to get through their shift, and their brusque greeting probably has nothing to do with me. In short, I’m determined to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I’m offering kindness first instead of offense or malice.

It’s not easy, and there are of course people who will act with deliberate cruelty toward you in this world. There are also the people who make mistakes that harm you directly, and then handle those mistakes poorly, even callously. Again: fallible, fallible humans.

For the most part, though, people are the flawed protagonists of their own narratives, and you have the opportunity to be a tolerant and positive background or supporting character in their story every once in a while. Perhaps someone can do the same for you in your own “hero’s journey”.

That said, acknowledging that all people err is not the same as automatically dismissing all errors. I’m simply aiming to start with a compassionate attitude, aware that my compassion may occasionally be misplaced (still, that’s a mistake I’m willing to make!). You can be wronged by people, intentionally or unintentionally. Only you can determine the parameters of your tolerance. At some point, you must prioritize compassion for yourself.

But I still think that erring on the side of forgiveness is kinder not just to others but to your own heart. That driver who cut me off in traffic? I didn’t have to hold that sense of anger and indignation in my heart for more than a couple seconds. I let it go, and the weight lifted from my chest.

Not everything slides off so easily. I am still learning the lesson of fallibility and struggling to master the magic of kindness despite experiencing the emotional equivalent of that one Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comic about the stairs.

Yeah, that’s the one. Source

Anyway. It’s a lesson in progress, but I’m getting the hang of it. If I’m to find my wonder again and become that joy-sparking unicorn that I aspire to be, I need to worry less about the things that have gone wrong and focus on the good that still exists in this world.

I’m encountering other lessons as well, but I need more time to absorb those before I share them. I’m probably jumping the gun on this lesson too, but hey: learning never ends. I may as well share my work in progress. It will give me a benchmark for the future.

This is my Year of the Unicorn, and I’m just getting started.

A Heavy-Hearted Announcement

One year ago, I wrote about my Anti-Death Spray: my reasons to stay alive and joyful. The list started with my wife’s name. Today, after months of agony and resistance, I removed her from my list.

Kelsey and I are divorcing. Even now, after everything we went through to come to this immensely sorrowful decision, I find myself rereading those words in disbelief. I don’t want this to be happening. I stand by my vows to her, that I love her with a love bigger than myself. I feel eviscerated by this change.

I’m sure many of you who know me personally are shocked by this announcement. I get it. Hell, I’m shocked too. I could never have foreseen this outcome. But that’s what everyone in this situation says, huh?

I won’t get into the details here. There’s an angry and wounded voice in my heart that wants to heard, but letting that voice out to rage helps no one.

What does help is updating my list of happy things to keep living for.

I still love Kelsey, but she can’t be at the top of my list anymore.

She’s not the only part of my list that’s changed, though. Life is change. Over the past year I’ve found many new treasures to cherish. New video games and new music. New recipes and new restaurants. New friends and new adventures. I’ve learned to appreciate an assortment of experiences that would never have made my list last April and I’m grateful for that.

Instead of asking me about this enormously difficult moment in my life, I encourage you to review your own list of loves. What has changed in your world? What new joys await you?

I may be quiet for a while as I process this lifestyle shift, but I’m still Abi, I still know who I am and what I want, and I still have happiness somewhere on my horizon.

As do you.

Wibbly-Wobbly Gender-Bender

I wrote this piece in May and let it fester in my drafts for months. I was worried about posting it, and whether it would induce eye-rolls, discomfort, or even hate. But if people don't talk about these things, they never get the chance to be normalized and discussed rationally and considerately. I believe rigid standards of gender are harmful to many people, transgender and cisgender, women and men (and those outside the binary!). 

So with that in mind, here's me being me.

Back when my small hometown had a Target, I experienced my first instance of being misgendered while opening the door for my mother and the school superintendent. Once she and my mother were inside the store, the superintendent turned to her and said, "You have a very polite son! He's quite the gentleman." 

I don't remember how my mother responded, but I assume she was gracious, and that she didn't point out the error. I was too busy riding a wave of adrenaline to notice. Something about being called a gentleman was delicious. I wanted to exist in that moment forever, glowing in mistaken masculinity on the dirty white tiles of Target.

My life up until then had been treading on the gender binary line. I wore dresses and flourished my pinkie when playing tea party, but I also sought out the butchiest remote control car when my grandparents offered me a "you're getting a baby brother" gift, and had gone through a period of time in which I insisted my name was Henry (and also that I was a male cat). In fifth grade, my mom not only let me chop my hair off, she encouraged it, ever supportive of my self-image. It helped that feminine pixie cuts were making a big comeback at the time, of course, but my mother had also permitted me to dress myself for school pictures, which resulted in me flaunting a brown collared sweater covered in Rockwell B-1 Lancers in my first grade portrait.

Fun fact: I asked my mom for the picture of me having a tea party in my Chicago Bulls jersey, and was presented with two such photos, neither of which being the photo I remembered, which means there are multiple documented instances of me playing tea as my hero, Michael Jordan. Much love to my late grandmother, who also let mini Michael Jordan do her nails.

Around the time of the Great Target Gentleman Incident, I landed the titular role in our community theater's production of Peter Pan, which kicked my gender dysphoria into hyperdrive. As part of the preparation for the performance, the director had us go around the theatre in character, as if we were on an adventure, and I was in charge of the exploration. I was given permission to behave differently, in unfeminine ways. I was unapologetically loud and stood with my legs apart, taking up as much space as I wanted, as I deserved. I teased and directed my Lost Boys, and stood high on a platform to tell them stories, which I acted out without a hint of self-consciousness. Everyone was swept up by the game, and I had never felt so at ease in my own body. 

But I knew that it had to end. That I'd go back to baby-doll tees that emphasized my breasts. That my hair would have to return from impish madness to the carefully girlish spikes more befitting my gender. That I would lose the magic of Pan. 

It hit me all at once, and after rehearsal one night, while my mom was meeting with some of the production staff (she had a big hand in the costumes and beyond), I sulked alone on stage. The director - then Wabash film student Reynaldo Pacheco, now rubbing elbows on the silver screen with the likes of Sandra Bullock and Ewan McGregor - approached me. He asked what the matter was, but I didn't know how to tell him. 

"Nerves?" he suggested.

I shook my head. For the first time in my life, it wasn't anxiety. At least, not the kind he was thinking of.

"Is it boy trouble?"

My heart shattered. I was angry and embarrassed, and now I was crying on stage, a scared little girl. I didn't have the words for what was wrong. At that point, I knew I didn't like boys, but thought I was just behind everyone else, immature. I think I made some kind of "ew" face at Rey, pushing away the idea like a much younger child might. I felt wounded. I'd grown attached to Rey, who had been so full of support and guidance both on and off the stage. It seemed like he didn't even know me. Maybe nobody knew me.

It meant that this little refuge wasn't really a refuge after all. It was a swiftly evaporating oasis in the desert. My time there was running out. 

Eventually I did return to the feminine world, but the feeling lingered. My heart pounded when the judges at marching band competitions assumed that I was a boy, as most tenor drum players were. I imagined and wrote stories from a masculine perspective. My Halloween and convention costumes were mostly male. In college, I finally acknowledged my homosexuality and discovered the wondrous existence of drag kings. The lines of gender began to fade.

By now in this meandering entry, my mother is probably hyperventilating. Don't worry, Mama. I frequently rock dresses and mascara, and I'm a weirdly big fan of high heels (tall and spiky, of course). However, I don't think I fall into the strictly ladylike camp.  My relationship with my gender is a little... wiggly. 

I think a lot of folks who experience homosexual attraction can relate to that. In some ways, our sexuality aligns us with the "opposite" gender, culturally speaking. The gender constructs that shape our worldview are heavily influenced by sexuality, and so it's no surprise that so much intersection exists in the queer community. We describe masculine lesbians as "butch," and you don't have to be a man in drag to be called a "queen." As for the bisexual folks? In a world so colored by the gender binary, their sexuality lands them in especially choppy and chaotic waters.

This year, I've been thinking a lot about gender's place in society and in my own life. I don't like how much of human behavior is dictated by its rules, and the strict cut-off in gender presentation frustrates me to no end. Like so many things, gender exists on a scale, and I wonder how different I would be if I had grown up as a boy. Would I be more confident, like I used to be on the stage? Would I have encountered better opportunities? Would I actually have cash in my savings account today?

Even if I had been assigned male at birth, I get the feeling I would still be somewhere in between. I love the frill and flourish of the femme, but also the confidence and swagger of masculinity. As a boy, I would still have done drag, but this time, in an over-the-top, traffic-stopping, sequin-laden evening gown instead of a gruff leather jacket and work boots.

So, there it is. I'm genderqueer. And honestly, I think we all are, to some degree. It's nearly impossible to fit perfectly into the gender roles that society places on us. Not just for women and queer folk, but for all of us. I'm one of the fortunate ones, though. I'm comfortable with my she/her/hers pronouns, and while I'm often frustrated with my body, I also don't mind playing dress-up with it (to quote The Producers, "If you got it, flaunt it, baby, flaunt it!"). Truly, I lucked out, and am happy with my (occasionally mercurial) identity. 

I challenge you to consider your gender today and what it means to you, whether you're at the far end of the spectrum, consider yourself genderless, or are somewhere in between. Do you like where you fit in? Can you imagine yourself somewhere else on the scale? This is a topic worthy of exploration, so don't hold back in your self-analysis!

As always, I would love to hear from you about your experience, and I'm always down to chat. 

Happy holidays, everyone. Be kind, be safe, and be yourself, whatever that may be.

Bless you, Snapchat. (Also, add me! abi_douglas)

Bad at Faces

My college roomie (Cade) and I bonded during our freshman year by playing Kingdom Hearts, alternating our mental breakdowns, and watching lots of shows and movies. I'd never been all that into TV, especially the not-cartoons kind, so Cade gave me a visual media baptism, for which I was deeply grateful. It turns out that I like TV.

One show we watched was about a butt-kicking special agent-type woman. The structure of the show alternated between the past and the present, showing the adult woman on modern missions, and then her younger self (I assumed from the context) training in what was basically spy school. I was having trouble following the plot, but things really got messy when present protagonist busted into past protagonist's school.

"What kind of convoluted time travel twist is this?" I exclaimed in disbelief.

Cade was understandably confused. "What do you mean? Character A is rescuing Character B. Where did you get time travel from that?"

And that's when Cade had to explain to me that everything I thought was happening in the story was a total lie. There were no past/present shenanigans, and the people who I thought were the same person (slender build, light skin, long dark hair) were actually entirely separate characters.

"They're different races," Cade told me, baffled by just how lost I'd been. 

And they were. When I saw them side by side, I realized one person was taller and had a different eye shape. As soon as they were apart, even though I knew their eyes were different, I couldn't envision either face. Their actresses could be replaced, and I'd never know the difference.

Soon after this (and several other) incidents, I heard neurologist Oliver Sacks (my idol and potential name inspiration for a future child; may he rest in peace) talking on a podcast about a neurological condition that inhibited facial recognition, and suddenly, things started making sense to me. My years of shyness, of describing my first friend as "the girl with the hair," of my mistaking teachers for each other, of losing the names of people I saw every week at church... All this time, I'd assumed I wasn't paying enough attention, or was rude without even trying to be. 

I had a name for what one of the most frustrating aspects of myself: face-blindness (AKA prosopagnosia, but prosopamnesia may better describe my particular struggle).

When I tell people that I'm face-blind, it tends to cause confusion. The most common question goes kind of like this: "So, you can't see faces? It's just blank skin?" To which I answer something like: "No, it's less like Figure A..."

Figure A

"... and more like Figure B."

Figure B

Except, maybe not as creepy. I can see eyes and noses and mouths. The problem is, once I look away, they are gone from my memory. I cannot picture the person I just saw, and I definitely can't imagine their head at a new angle. I compensate by describing their features in my mind as I look at them (like, "She has a mole above her lip and her eyebrows look like check marks"), but that's a weak fix.

The problem with poor facial recognition is that humans have evolved to rely on that ability to the extent that faces are used as a memory tool for keeping track of the other humans you know. Let's think of your mind like an office:

Source

Yes, exactly. There's a section of your brain office that keeps track of the people you encounter. In this analogy, when you see a face, your little office workers open their filing cabinets, find the file with the matching face on the tab, and grant you access to things like that person's name, biographical information, and shared memories. This doesn't happen for other features, like the voice. You get a slight delay with voices as your workers search their cabinets. No, faces act as a special memory shortcut, and seem to be uniquely tied to recognition and recall. [Source]

Well... for most folks. For people with face-blindness (and there's a spectrum, by the way), the files are missing that useful face tab feature. In fact, there may be no stored information about faces at all. This makes for a messy office environment. When a face-blind person sees a face, their brain office might look a little like this as the workers paw haplessly through unmarked files and try to gain identity clues from much less efficient details, like voice, hair, and stature:

Source

Couple that with anxiety and the following scene may occur:

Source

Luckily, my face-blindness isn't too severe. I usually recognize friends, family, and myself, if I'm expecting to see them/me (though I did recently startle myself by glimpsing my reflection and thinking it was a stranger stink-eyeing me in a McDonald's). People with exaggerated or unusual facial features stick in my mind a bit better as well. Exposure helps, but I require quite a bit of it before anything stays.

Unfortunately, even with fairly mild face-blindness, I'm in a job that often necessitates quick facial recognition, and that's part of why face-blindness has been on my mind so much lately. Assigned seating at school and working in a call center worked in my favor in the past, but now I'm sitting at the front desk of a small business that has a number of clients in a similar age range who could drop in at any time. I've had panic attacks during networking events because I'm so terrified of accidentally reintroducing myself to someone I already know and offending them. Not only that, but because of the intrinsic relationship between facial recognition and semantic memory, I have a harder time coming up with information about the people that I should know. [Source]

I'm nervous about the repercussions this may have for my future as a writer as well. Because I've self-published, I need to handle most/all of my marketing, which, to be honest, involves a lot of schmoozing. I can't afford to let my face-blindness make me shy in settings where I must promote myself or be lost in the crowd. I also can't afford to insult important connections because I can't tell the potential agent I've been chatting with apart from a complete stranger wearing the same blouse.

I could certainly have it worse. There are even celebrities I recognize pretty consistently, though I wonder if that has to do with their celebrity status in the first place (do certain facial traits correlate with fame, either because they're more attractive or more memorable than most?). I question whether I even have this admittedly self-diagnosed condition sometimes.

Until, of course, I lose sight of my wife in the grocery store and wonder if I'll ever see her again.

The solution for now is to work on my other memory tools and, as uncomfortable as this makes me, to be forthright with my acquaintances. My boss has encouraged me to note my face-blindness to people who I may meet again. The risk here is that I'll be taken advantage of (fat chance I'll pick an assailant out of a lineup, for example!), but in my business circles, it's a risk I need to take. 

All this to say: next time I try to introduce myself to you for the eighth time, please know I'm trying my best, even though my best is a cartoon office fire in my brain-pan.

Imaginary Therapist

I'm really into this thing where I shrink myself. No, not in the fetishy way. Yes, there is a fetishy way.

No, the kind of shrinking I'm into is the kind in which I go to great lengths to imagine an in-depth conversation with a therapist that I don't actually have. 

There are a few good reasons to employ an imaginary therapist:

1. They are very cost-effective

2. I'm out of good reasons

A photo of my imaginary therapist between clients

OK, so it's not that great of a coping method, but damn if it ain't affordable. I find myself visiting my imaginary therapist at least once a day, and I don't even have to consult my health insurer about it. A number of things can trigger a visit. Sometimes, I go to them (my imaginary therapist is non-binary, of course) to vent about other real people. These sessions are very "woe is me," and I like to think I.T. (you know, Imaginary Therapist) reassures me that yes, those real people are placing a lot of pressure on me, and no, not everything is my responsibility.

Other times, I swing by I.T.'s office because I've noticed myself engaging in some neuro-atypical behaviors or thought patterns. I've mentioned these to you before, actually, so I suppose you are in league with I.T. to some extent as well. Here's how a typical session like that plays out:

Me: Hi, I.T. I hope that you don't mind that I'm consulting you in the shower, while I shave my legs for the first time in three weeks.

I.T.: Actually, I'm not-

Me: So anyway, here's the thing. The other day, I was supposed to go to this networking event, right? And yeah, nobody really likes networking events, but I'd been to this particular event several times in the past, and they aren't that bad. I even have a little fun at them. Anyway. I'm running late to the event, right? I used to be punctual. Neurotically punctual. Do you think I've lost the energy to be on time? Is that depression? Or am I late these days because I married someone who is allergic to being on time? Was that mean? 

I.T.: I don't-

Me: OK, so I'm late, but it's because I was cleaning up dog poop. Dog diarrhea, actually. With some mucus and blood in it, which was pretty alarming. Is my dog dying? Do you think it's my fault? Am I stressing my puppies out? Oh my gawd, what are my kids going to be like? Not that I'll ever afford them. Also, it's probably inhumane to pass on my genes to a new generation. The planet is dying, after all, and I want to pop some children into that world with DNA that will almost guarantee that they'll be mentally ill, near-sighted, and at least some variation of queer? Not that it's wrong to be queer, or mentally ill, or near-sighted, for that matter. I mean, HELLO. But it's hard, you know? 

I.T.: ?

Me: Back to the poop, which the dog is now on meds for, so it's fine. Anyway, I was sick too, so I puked on the poop as I cleaned it up. Quelle horreur! Then I had to clean feces out of the dog's fur. Yippee. Maybe I'll make a Facebook post about that. Historically, my friends have enjoyed posts that feature my dogs and their bowel movements. Is it bad that I get a rush when people like my stuff and say that I'm funny? Am I a narcissist? Should I be making more posts about how our government is imploding and everyone who isn't a rich, straight, white, cis-gender, Christian man has a guillotine hanging over their necks?

I.T.: I think you nicked your toe...

Me: Yeah, I have Hobbit-level hairy toes. I think it's the PCOS. But I'm not sure I really have PCOS, except that I haven't been... uh, you know... visited by Mother Nature since Christmas. I have this joke with my wife that my body just keeps re-wallpapering my uterus in this manic, child-hungry desperation and is refusing to throw anything out. Anyway, as I was saying, dog poop, human puke, running late. But I did make it to the event, even though I had to park a block away and walk to it through the rain. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I have prosopagnosia. Face-blindness. I have an impaired ability to recognize and remember faces, even faces within my own family sometimes.

I.T.: You mention it frequently.

Me: It makes networking hard. But, hallelujah, there were name tags at the event. The meeting place was in this tiny boutique, and about three bajillion people were crammed inside, so I was fighting like a salmon during mating season to make it upstream to the name tags. All the while, I keep thinking about how I need to be here because I missed a couple days of work because of the dogs and my own health and our flooded basement because it's been raining for the past eternity. I finally get up there, and this guy, let's call him "Kevin," steps in front of me. I don't know a Kevin, but it's on his name tag. Kevin just eyeballs me. Just stares right into my garbage-fire soul. So I introduce myself, but I'm kind of thrown, and I know I look like I'm a child, not somebody who belongs at this networking event. He still doesn't speak. I start to panic. I can feel the hot, embarrassed tears in my eyes. And I straight up run away. I run away! What adult businesswoman does that?

I.T.: I-

Me: My immediate thought is social anxiety, right? But I know some of these people, and I like a lot of them! I like being around people. I'm a performer, an extrovert. Well, more of an ambivert. Sometimes being around people is draining, but sometimes being alone is, too. People or no people, I'm just drained. Is that mental illness or physical illness? Maybe I'm making all of this up.

I.T.: Maybe you should-

Me: Point is, I don't know that it was social anxiety. Probably more of a guilt complex thing. 95% of my personality is shame-based. Sometimes I wonder if all of my shame is really just a method of garnering sympathy and attention. Ick, that's kind of sad, huh? I really don't like to think about that. That's giving me some cognitive dissonance. Why did you bring that up?

I.T.: But I never-

Me: Oooh, brrrr! There goes the hot water. I'd better wrap this up. Thanks, I.T. See you in about 10 minutes when I'm nervously picking at all the acne on my jawline!

My poor therapist never really gets more than a word or two in edgewise. That's a shortcoming of the system. It's free, sure, but it's really easy to overpower someone who isn't actually there. It's also easy to get them to agree with you, and they rarely have an opinion that truly differs from yours. 

Earlier this week, a coworker and I were talking about jury duty. I said that I'd been summoned three times in the past two years, but had only shown up for the first one, which got me out of the subsequent ones. She asked if I was selected, and I told her that I wasn't, and made a joke that it was probably because I straight up wrote this in the section for reasons I shouldn't be chosen: "I considered jumping off of a building a week ago, and may consider it again during the course of the trial."

My coworker didn't find the joke as funny as I did. She asked if I had a therapist. I told her that I didn't, that it seemed like a hassle, and a potentially costly one at that. I laughed it off and assured her that I'm fine now. You know, fine enough to get by. 

But maybe it is something I should consider someday. It can't hurt to shop for a therapist. The worst that can happen is that I'll not find anyone covered by my insurance, or that they'll be too expensive even with my health plan. 

I've heard several people say that everyone could benefit from a therapist, from an unbiased outsider's voice and ear. I agree with that. Hey, I majored in psychology, didn't I? So it's odd that I'm such a stick in the mud when it comes to considering therapy for myself.

You know what? I think I'll look into it. If not for my own sake, then for I.T.'s. The poor soul is overdue for a vacation.