I wish I was still in bed. Unfortunately, I’m sitting in the public library. I came up here to find something to read since I never do that anymore and to pick up a bunch of CDs I ordered so I could update my iPod. Since I seem to blog best in the library, I thought I’d take a shot at it while I was here. But let the record reflect, I’d rather be at home in bed, asleep. I woke up this morning at 7:00 because I couldn’t sleep anymore. I found out last night that Uncle Fish is being put in a nursing home today. Which is definitely not cool. And of course, I feel like it’s my fault. I sit at home and do nothing day in and day out and what happens to him? He gets shoved into a home like someone forgot about him. My dad traveled down there to make the transition a little easier but I don’t know how much of a difference it’s going to make. I know how much having to depend on other people is weighing on Uncle Fish and this is going to be the ultimate cake-topper. It hurts me that he’s hurting, it really does. I cried this morning because I felt so defenseless, so helpless. There’s nothing anyone can do. We all just have to kind of sit and wait with him and that’s scary. And this is so incredibly hard for me because it’s like staring death in the face. Uncle Fish looks so physically sick every time I see him. Whenever we go down there, he looks worse. I don’t know what to do with myself when I see him. Like I want to leave the room because I almost can’t handle it. I have such issues. Speaking of which, I need to declare to Allister (well, since he’ll be reading this at some point between now and our next session [Hi, Allister!], he’ll know it for himself!) that I want therapy to be more serious. I want to get to the real heart and soul of the problem. I don’t want to scratch the surface anymore. I’ve never cried in therapy, and most of the time I leave feeling perfectly fine. Am I suppose to? Aren’t I suppose to leave feeling like crap? Aren’t I supposed to be upset and hysterical? I just don’t know if the deeper, like root-of-the-problem problems are being dealt with. Like when I bring up my self-esteem issues in group, it’s really difficult to talk about and I feel super self-conscious, but when I do the exact same thing with Allister, I feel like I deflect with humor and avoid the subject so expertly that in the end, it’s never really discussed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to it. I’m scared shitless. I don’t want to do this at all. But I know that in order to get better, I need to. I’m taking Medical Coding this semester for my Medical Assisting degree. There’s a numerical code for every recognized disease on the face of the Earth and it’s all contained within this book called the ICD-9-CM. Borderline Personality Disorder’s code is 301.83. Major Depressive Disorder’s code is 296.2. And OCD’s code is 300.3. That’s my life contained in code. I could add one more for generalized anxiety but that sort of ties in with the OCD. On a piece of paper, that’s the definition of Lucy Burnett. It was kind of like a holy moment for me and I don’t know why. To see myself the way clinicians see me was really like, Inception-esque. I don’t know how to describe it. The cutting, the crying, the sleeping, the lack of motivation, the guilt, the sorrow, everything is contained in 3 sets of 4 digits. It’s really scary. I feel like Jean Valjean from Les Mis. 24601. Except mine is 301.83, 296.2, or 300.3. I don’t know. I start with a new psychiatrist on Monday because my last appointment with Dr. Ordella (which was on Wednesday) was a disaster. Allister found this one. She works at the Center. Hopefully, she’ll be willing to help me so I don’t feel so contained by the numbers and the diagnoses. On Wednesday, I brought my mom with me to see Dr. Ordella because I knew I wasn’t going to stay calm at all. First, Dr. Ordella made me sign a release, with my mom sitting in the room right next to me, saying that she had permission to talk to my mom. As if my mom being there wasn’t permission enough! Then, she started going in on me about how she would’ve switched me if I had asked (basically calling me a liar again) bla, bla, bla so I stopped listening. Eventually, my mom reasoned with her and we started on a low dose of Prozac. Right now I’m weaning off the Effexor so I start the Prozac in a little while. We’ll see how it goes with this doctor though, she might have other plans. I think I’m ready for a nap.