This morning I went to see my psychiatrist.  Yes, I admit, I have one.  I've had a few therapists over the years.  I've also had a few bouts with depression, every eating disorder in the book and extreme anxiety. And those were in the golden years of teendom and early adulthood!  What awaits me in old age?

Anyway, I'm not above admitting this, obviously, because though it seems we live in a pretty self-medicated world, I also think we live in a pretty obnoxious and overstimulated world.  And that, my friends, is our own damn fault.  1984? We're living it, minus the rats at the end. I don't mean to be negative - I love modern conveniences - but let's not fool ourselves that those very conveniences aren't making our lives even more hectic, our goals more unobtainable and our expectations for ourselves, our children, our marriages and our happiness Just. Plain. Ridiculous.

Tangent over.

This morning I went to see my psychiatrist, which I have to do every three to six months to keep getting my medicine, only to find out that though her office takes my health insurance, my health-insurance provider has outsourced the mental-health portion to someone else, who they don't take. Meaning my psychiatrist is out-of-network. Which is medical profession for "fuck you."

So...decisions.  Do I go find a new psychiatrist and try to explain that the only reason I sought help in this particular chapter of my life was the extreme lack of sleep I was getting last holiday season?  That I spent two hours a day crying because my daughter spent two hours a night doing the same?  That I wanted to kill the next person who asked when I was having another baby because the toddler I had hadn't started sleeping as well as a newborn at 22 months?  It all just seems like so much work. Plus, I'm feeling better now that the little angel only wakes up a maximum of once a night and usually goes right back to sleep.  Oh, and I got a new contract that goes until January, and it's even doing editorial stuff which makes me happy, happy, happy.  And I like my husband and my daughter and my friends and family, and really the only thing off in my life right now is my fear that Sister Little's head might explode or something, but that will probably be rectified with no issues soon.

So with nothing going wrong, am I still crazy?  I know, that's harsh.  I was never crazy.  Extremely anxiety-ridden, but not crazy.  The anxiety does seem to be gone, although after a weekend spent with four pregnant women, I did find myself having dreams about an adult little angel looking at me and asking why I never gave her a brother or sister.  I do have some anxiety about the fact that I don't want another child, but I feel like I should have one just because.  But other than that, pretty good.  Of course, the more I ponder whether or not I'm anxious, the more anxious it makes me.

You can only stop flying missions if you're crazy, but you prove yourself sane if you want to stop.

So here I am.  I don't think I've ever felt normal. From the age of eight I had horrible self-loathing and body issues.  Then Ma's cancer and the years and years of eating disorders and more self-loathing, followed by the anxiety that is your early-to-mid twenties.  I capped that off with marriage, home ownership and the birth of my first child.  I seem to be taking things easier now, but is that because I'm a) medicated, b) 32 or c) I've already faced a lot of Life's Big Decisions?

What does it feel like to feel normal?  How do I know if I'm better?  Anyone?