I’m suppose to get in an intensive outpatient program. It’s suppose to carry me through the next couple of months until my family and I move. I’ve called the facility but all the intake lines are busy. So now I’m waiting by the phone. Always waiting. I’m gone next week so I need to know if I should go do the intake assessment tomorrow or wait until I get back. Big question of the day. But it can’t be answered until they call back. So, I sit here and wait by the phone. Each moment making me more anxious. It’s a scary enough action for me to take, without this anticipation of a call and having to explain it all again. Breathe! Breathe. Writing helps. It keeps my hands busy, if not my mind. And if I’m typing, I can’t be cutting or burning. Either of those would bring relief to this anxiety. I’m afraid of opening myself to others. My self-deprecation tells me my issues aren’t as bad as anyone else, so I shouldn’t take up their time. Opening myself to others, being vulnerable, is a trigger for me. It’s kind of a need to show them how much I hurt inside. I never feel that people believe me. Just get up, brush yourself off and get on with life. Wish it were that easy.
Now it’s 5 hours later and the call never came. Not much help to my anxiety about doing this. When I talked to the operator she said that all the lines were busy at intake. Maybe it was a technical problem and not someone neglecting to get back to me. Let’s hope. Anxious enough spending a few hours with my elderly parents. My dad gets aggravated and his voice raises. It makes me cringe inside and want to get away. It’s a tone I’ve always reacted to. I had to leave the apartment for a few minutes, until he was done, so I guess I actually took care of myself! I didn’t stay and make myself endure it. Now, tomorrow morning I need to call the program facility again and see what’s up. UGH!!