300.2

Why? Do you ask? Is my blog called 300.2? Let me start with the back story. I am 25, and in a current state of duress. When I was in middle school we prepared for high school. In high school we were striving to obtain scholarships to get into college. Little did I know that all my overzealous extracurriculars which resulted, much to my dismay, to get me voted "most involved" by my senior class, were going to gross me $3,000 total, most of it coming from my elementary school, named after a Native American Indian. Is that PC? Apparently that's how they roll on Long Island in regard to naming shit. Thanks for the 1.5% help off my college tuition. Anyway from there counselors helped you choose your major in college and that was ultimately to prepare you for the real world: a job. Well finally I realized that in "Freshman year of life," no one holds your hand the way they do in the past and you're ultimately preparing for retirement. So now here I am, in Junior Year of Life, age 25, at a job that isn't what I thought it was going to be, and a credit card debt like I'm raising a small family - with a chronic case of hives.

Don't get me wrong, from the outside looking in, I'm really not a nervous mess. I have lots of interesting and engaging, and did I mention hot and popular friends, a good looking boyfriend and a pretty dysfunctional, yet supportive family. However, the uncertainty of the future and utter dissatisfaction with my current situation (what? You don't come out of college making $75k a year and I have to PAY $700 to get a cavity filled - what is the point of insurance? - I nearly passed out when my hot young Asian dentist told me - and normally I'm quite adverse to Asians) has resulted in an overall anxious feeling from day to day. So I start breaking out in hives when I am doing nothing that should make me break out in hives, everyday things. I decide, like most New Yorkers, that I have to dump my problems on a complete stranger and need to take advantage of the little insurance that I work so hard for at my not-so-great paying and not-so-challenging job. I enlist the help of a friend in grad school for none other than therapy and determine I am going to interview therapists. That's what every non-crazy does right? Til it just feels right, like a mate. At least that's what we're led to believe "you'll just click" - bullshit.

I finally settle on this heavy lesbian who is actually a social worker. However as our sessions go on, she is a little too opinionated and not so flexible with my schedule. I want to come every other week, after all I have a shore house and after treating my body like a garbage disposal all weekend, I want to relax on Mondays rather than rehash suppressed childhood memories. Priorities people. After each session I come home in a catatonic state and tell my boyfriend about how I loved her this time and the next I hated her because she told me what to do and was yawning too much. Sorry do my problems bore you? Oh wait you are getting $350 an hour to listen to me bitch so damn it you will pretend you are interested. The next session I go back and she wants me to refill the insurance forms (Insurance Companies rule the world btw) because my penmanship is comparable to writing with your feet. I never mastered the art of fine motor coordination, I also can't paint my nails and tried to get my boyfriend to do it once because he claims he is "artistic," (ie took Art in high school). He tried to paint them like you would a canvas and that was the end of that. So I have the form in front of me and my info is already there. Being the invader of privacy that I am I immediately scour the paper for any details I can take in. I want to know what she is scribbling all session. I deserve to know. How dare she judge me? Then a few lines down I see it.

DIAGNOSIS: 300.2

That's my diagnosis every session. Immediately I'm mad at her for diagnosing me with any kind of crazy. "Who does this lesbian bitch yawner think she is?" I'll diagnose her with a big F-A-T. So I scribble it down in the memo section of my blackberry, where you should keep important notes like "don't forget meeting with really important exec tomorrow" but instead I write things like a song I hear that I like or the type of wine that I am guzzling at my friend's apt and seemingly enjoy.
I can't even concentrate during our session, as the different types of 300.2 diagnoses run through my head. "Chronic Put downer of others to make herself feel better" Is that a disease? I always just thought making fun of people was amusing. "Psycho Personality Disorder." Did I tell her the truth about the story with my boyfriend? Surely I edited it for a therapist's ears. Don't lie, anyone that goes to any doctor lies to them, I know it's not in our best interest but it's certainly in the best interest of my ego. I'm trying to impress here. Even if I'm less than impressed by you, I must feel superior.

I get home and immediately google it. General Anxiety Disorder. That bitch.

I stopped going to her the next month.





Stay tuned for more rants on living in a big city, being 25, and hating your job. For now I am going to drink my sorrows away with my friends because that's what you do when you're 25 and broke.