Carefully Crafted

Where do I sit? How's my body language? Did I wear too much make up, not enough? Damn it! I should have washed my hair this morning! Did I choose the correct clothes? What does my designer bag say about me? Should I have left it in the car? Did I really have to finish my tweet while he waited in the doorway?

All that screamed through my mind today as I met with the new psychologist for the second time. I don't think I made a really great impression during our first visit. I wore my 5150 tank and no bra. I wasn't thinking then. He said it gave him "insight" into who I was and what I was about.

But I know, I know what they, these doctors, do because I've seen it in my charts from various other providers: "well groomed today," "uncooperative body language,"" no eye contact," "unusually chatty," "no make up and hair in a pony tail," "manic," "depressed," yada yada yada.... Every move a psychiatric patient makes is scrutinized, put under a microscope and dissected like a frog in an tenth grade biology class.

I usually don't mind therapy, I get to talk about my narcissistic self for 45 minutes. Today, however, wasn't so great. I was nervous, I was unsure of myself and I was teary. I hate being teary, it serves no purpose I can think of other than making me look weak.

It is all about appearances isn't it? Isn't that why I drive a Mercedes and wear a Rolex? Isn't that why I botox the hell out of my forehead? Isn't that why I color my hair and paint my nails black?

I told the doc of all that has transpired over the last week and a flood of emotion came over me and betrayed the shit out of me. He said when I first told him of the horrific things I sounded "nonchalant." I said I was numb. I told him I "compartmentalize" to get through my life.

He assured me that was a perfectly normal coping skill, deal with what I can when I can and put the rest away until later. That's when I really began talking, and he began questioning, and that's when I nearly lost the appearance game. I felt the betraying tears.

I was determined not to let them cascade over my lashes. I would not allow them to trace the outline of my cheeks. I would not reach for a tissue. I would hold it together and continue to compartmentalize.  I'm quite sure in the copious notes he was taking he wrote of the cracked facade he'd witnessed and of my insistence on controlling the emotion that almost overcame me. 

All of my psychiatrists before had mentioned my ability to hold myself together and my "great coping skills." They spoke of my strength and resolve. I knew it was all bullshit on my part. They didn't really know me, I never let "me" out.

Very little of that was there after the first few minutes with this doctor today. I almost lost my appearance, the person I've carefully crafted over the years to cover my inner self. This doctor was touching nerves, nerves that haven't been touched in years.

Was it good? Was it bad? Did I even want to know that self? Did I want anyone else to know the real me? I did know I didn't feel comfortable with a new doctor getting a glimpse of my inner being.