I did everything that I possibly could to keep the focus of yesterday's therapy session off my depression. I am so confused by it right now, because I tend to be on a roller coaster ride between depression and happiness these days. There's very little pattern of when I feel depressed and for how long, or for the time and duration of my happy feelings. Most of the time I'm in a state somewhat like this: Happy in the early morning, begin to feel depressed by midmorning, go back to happy until about 1:30 p.m., which then finds me depressed until about 7:30 p.m., leaving the rest as a bit of a blur because of how medicated I am at night.
Right now, I just do not want to talk about my depressed feelings. I haven't sorted them out in the manner that I'd like to and until I do, I just don't want to talk about them.
So, Cathy and I focused on my obsessive-compulsive tendencies instead. That actually happened by accident. After being asked how I was copping with school and all of the work laid on me, I told Cathy that I'm actually keeping up with everything. In fact, I am keeping up with the work a little too well. Cathy stated that there is no such thing as keeping up with work too good. Of course, I had to set her straight on what I meant.
Everything that I do has to be perfect. There is no such thing as imperfect, because I cannot deal with anything that's flawed. I have become a bit neurotic about my schoolwork, becoming very edgy (especially over the weekend, which gives me an extended about of time to obsess) and irritable if I'm unsuccessful in achieving what I deem to be just right (with my work). In fact, I cannot even stand to study notes that are written by me; they must be typed in a neat and orderly outline. If my notes are not done in such a manner, I'm unable to study them. To you that might sound ludicrous, but to me it's just how things are.
Cathy said that I have yet again another obsessive-compulsive tendency. She just keeps pointing those suckers out, which I think has lead her to believe that obsessive-compulsive should be added to my list of diagnosed problems of mine (depression and anxiety have a new friend).
I do not remember exactly how, but I began discussing a bit of my childhood with Cathy. Even when I was a little girl, like four or five, I had to have things (meaning just about anything) just so, because I'd get so irritated and agitated if things weren't how I thought they should be. For example, my Barbie dolls were not allowed to get dirty or have their original clothes taken off to be replaced by accessory clothes, among other things. I would not play with a Barbie (let's not forget Ken!) doll if one of my rules were broken. To give a bit of an idea of what I mean, we'll use the Vomit Incident as an example.
One time, when Tiffany and I were about five years old, Tiffany did something to a Barbie doll of mine, which caused me to never touch it again. My dad had picked the two of us up from Kiddie Korner and was driving home when Tiffany suddenly began to vomit in a plastic bag holding the said Barbie. I realize that she could not help it, because she was pretty sick at the time, and that vomit washes off, but I was never able to play with that doll again. Tiffany's vomit tainted the poor thing. I did allow people that I didn't like to play with her, as long as they abided by my rules, but I wouldn't touch her.
I was always picky about my dolls. Actually, I've always been picky about most of my things, as I've already stated. Cathy made the remark that "a good obsessive-compulsive mommy doesn't allow her dolls to be anything but new looking." There's a fine line between caring for your things and obsessively cleaning, nurturing, and picking at your belongings.
At the mention of picking, Cathy automatically asked how I was doing with the picking-at-my-face problem. I knew as well as she did that I am not doing any better. Looking at my face can prove that, especially if you were to look at it yesterday or today. I have been picking, poking, and otherwise fucking up my face for the past two days. No matter what I think about and how hard I try to psych myself to put down my weapon of choice (a bobby pin), I just can't do it.
"We're going to have to work on that, Alisha," Cathy said. Obsessive-compulsive disorder doesn't go away. The only way to cope with it is to learn how to control your desire to do whatever OC thing you do.
My obsessions and compulsions weren't the only thing we talked about. I also mentioned:
• Mr. Tamayo's sex speech, which Christina and I laughed our way through. We're not immature enough to laugh at the mention of sex; we were only cracking up because of the way he was speaking. "Some of you will, or already have, to choose between wanting to feel good and experience pleasure in the here-now, or wait until you're in a relationship with someone whom you love and trust," is the way Mr. Tamayo began his little speech. The kids in his class are between 16 and 17 years of age, which means that he would've had to do a better job at ripping off a corny after school special than he did. Once I was over my fit of giggles, the only thing I felt compelled to do was raise my hand and ask him to just tell the class to pack it before you sack it and move on.
• The penis article in GQ, which I will post about later on today.
• Geraldine Ferraro, who is the person I'm doing my research paper on for Mr. Mims.
• Psychology class, where I'm currently studying The Nature and Nurture of Behavior, which is quite interesting.
• News on the psychologists who offer new research on the link between teen mood swings and the not completely matured prefrontal cortex part of the brain (in teens). Cathy said that the story makes sense, because kids have intelligence levels of adults by the age of 12, but that the part of the brain (the frontal lobes) that controls emotions is what contributes to teens being as screwy as they are. That, by the way, is not a direct quote.
Within 30 or 40 minutes time, Cathy and I seemed to have discussed quite a bit. That's one thing I like about therapy—it really seems therapeutic.
Reading
GQ
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