Pacifiers

What is the obsession with pacifiers? Now judging by that first sentence you might think I am referring to my son. But no, it’s the adult obsession with pacifiers that I am most curious about.

This time, it was the old man at a gas station on I-74.

We, the Little Prince and I, are waiting in line to pay for our respective apple juice and diet soda, two of our other vices. And there is a bit of a wait because a different customer has had seizure and the ambulance has to be called (before the ambulance has a chance to get there the seized man jumps up and runs out the door like he has a warrant on him. Strange things happen when you travel, folks.) Anyway, we are in line, and the older man in front of us looks down at my son and says–

“You’re a bit old for that aren’t you?”

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Poor Maureen

I have been talking a lot about my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Which has made me feel like an ambassador of some kind. But then I started thinking about my diagnosis, which was less than facebook official, and became suddenly wary.  (Which ticked my anxiety into high gear ironically—feelings of inadequacy, “I’m a fraud,” blah, blah, blah)  I don’t want to go into how I was diagnosed and subsequently medicated (boy, that sounds nefarious) but technically, well,  I’ve already mentioned it once before on this very blog so you probably already know… Cutting to the chase, I got my anxiety disorder diagnosed by my general doctor and not a psychiatrist.

Psychiatrist seems more legit, right? That’s what I thought too. So after a confusing series of emails to my doctor, the poor nurse may have thought I was some kind of nut (nothing’s wrong I just need legitimacy. No, I don’t want to hurt myself or others to get it. She wasn’t wrong about the nut part, but that’s not the point) I get an appointment with a counselor. They must deal with worse because she gave me a referral to the same counselor I saw when I first started my meds with very little hubbub. A counselor is like a psychiatrist, right?  I think to myself. Either way I don’t want to be too much trouble, so I take it.

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About Me, honestly

What about me?

Honestly. I’ve been many things.

I remember meeting a neighbor once. I was about twelve.

(Who am I kidding? I was definitely twelve. I know because social interactions never fade in my memory. No matter how much my awkward introvert heart wants them to fade— they’re solid. Pristine. The truck was blue, the neighbor was wearing plaid. My hair was cut in an unfortunate bob.)

Anyway, I am twelve. (An age I still have not outgrown much twenty years later.) And the neighbor asks me, “So, which one are you?”

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