I have been trying to see a new therapist for ages, but the hard part of trying to go see a therapist about your anxiety is that your dickbag anxiety gets in the way of you actually getting to see the therapist. And, just to be even dickbaggier, it actually makes me dumber.
The First Dumbening
I worried all day about where to park and got so wound up about it that I texted my husband telling him I didn’t want to go. He asked me where the office was. Then told me where to park. Then I looked on a map and found an even closer parking garage. Never even occurred to me to LOOK somewhere for a parking spot. Dorp!
The Second Dumbening
I was at the parking paying machine thing and my grand total was $1.00 The machine would not take my cards. It kept telling me they were invalid. Not declined. Invalid. So mean! I tried over and over because if they didn’t work I would be trapped in the parking garage forever and would have to live in my car. I got so panicky that I texted Eric that I was trapped. Trapped? Really, Jenny? Then I found a quarter in my pocket and remembered I had 3 more in the car. SAVED! However, I started panicking anew that in the time it took me to get to the car and back the price would go up and I would be trapped in the clutches of the evil parking garage again!
It did not occur to me until much later that there were at least 3 banks less than a two-minute walk from where I was. Banks. Where they keep the money. Banks that I could walk to and get some of that money stuff that I needed to escape the evil parking garage. Shit.
Come on, brain!