Self help overload

I am a walking encyclopedia of self-help books.  Each book contributes to the list of weaknesses I ascribe to my personality and ultimately feeds my feelings of inadequacy.  Through living, learning, and loving and the power of positive thinking about my erroneous zones, I was obviously becoming a smart cookie, a woman who loved too much, and who found everything I wanted wasn’t enough (probably because he’s just not that into me).  Even when I tried to live the seven habits of highly effective people and not to sweat the small stuff, I made foolish choices and wondered if I was really born to win.  It seemed I’d never win friends and influence people.

I picked up the latest volume of Chicken Soup — for the Disenchanted.

I had tried therapy to save my first marriage, counseling to help my children adjust to the divorce, and family therapy to help us tolerate powdered milk.  When I remarried, we attended step-parent therapy.  Four teens allowed in one room is now against the law in the state of California.  When the therapist asked what problem we wanted to work on, each bitterly blurted out some unrelated event.  The youngest one, last to be heard, shot a scowl at the person sitting to his right.  “My sister gave the cat a bath.”

Everyone ignored him, including the counselor.  She earned her money just keeping everyone seated in the room.  At the close of the session, Cheezy crossed his right foot over his left knee.  The bottom of his sole was covered with fur.

“What’s all over your shoe?” I asked.  Everyone else glared at him.

“I tried to tell you earlier, but no one would listen” he whined.  “Coco gave the cat a bath in my tub, and now there’s cat hair all over the floor.”

The catch-your-breath-if-you-can assortment of kid’s doozies and disquieting family harmony sometimes riddled me with bouts of depression.  Ice cream fixed my mood swings temporarily, but did little for my waistline. 

My friend Yolanda told me about a clinical trial group.  She got roped into it, not because she suffered from depression, but because her family doctor was old and hard of hearing.  I only guessed he was old because my friend George told me hearing was the second thing to go.

“What’s the first?” I asked.  He couldn’t remember.

When Yolanda’s doctor gave her a physical, he questioned her about her mornings.  “I wake up cheerfully every day,” she said.

“I can give you some medication for that,” her doctor said.  “You shouldn’t have to wake up tearfully every morning.”  He gave her a referral to one of those clinical trials.  I went instead.

“Hi, how are you today?” the receptionist merrily asked.  What did she think?  I was attending a study group with hormonally challenged patients.  They told me I was a good candidate.  I didn’t drink or smoke, and could cry on cue.

My problems spiraled out of control the week after I joined.  I had found out my youngest might not graduate from high school.  “What’s your problem?” I asked as he lounged on the sofa.

He gave me a sheepish grin.  “Senioritis,” he said.

“Give me a break.  You’ve had senioritis since you were a sophomore.  You’re just plain lazy.”  I was unhappy and wanted him to know it.

“Yeah, I know,” he confessed.  “But now I’m lazy, plus I have Senioritis.  What do you expect from someone named after cheese?”

It was too much for me.  “Aren’t you glad I’m on antidepressants?” I bawled to my counselor.  I told her I couldn’t endure any more, felt like a failure, and the like.  I think I mentioned, “I feel ugly.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re ugly,” she said.  “But then again, you wouldn’t turn many heads.”

“I’m so insignificant no one remembers my name.  I …”

The counselor took a moment to glance up.  “I’m sorry.  Paula, wasn’t it?” she interrupted. 

It’s difficult for doctors to take a depressed person with a sense of humor seriously.  “You’re slipping me placebos,” I accused a nurse.  With that statement, in rushed the doctor in charge.  He didn’t introduce himself.  Instead, he took one look at me.  “Oh, I remember you,” he said.

No, he didn’t.  I’d never met him before.  “I’m sorry we’ve never met,” I retorted.  “But you know what they say about depressed people — we all look alike.”