I've been wanting to have therapy for months.

I spent most of last weekend panicking because it looked like I wasn't going to be able to have therapy, or was going to have to wait another eight months to go through the waiting list again.

I went, in fact, as far as to leave hysterical messages on an answerphone relating to my desperate need for therapy and how very badly I wanted to ensure that I managed to get it, regardless of what the postal service might have had to say on the matter.

I called someone up again on Monday to ensure that the problem was going to be sorted, and was relieved to be told that it had.

(Incidentally, I got the letter about the first appointment - the ome I missed due to my not knowing I had actually been given it - on Tuesday. Yes, thank you very much for telling me I have an appointment for therapy on the 26th October, too bad I got the letter several weeks later and have already rearranged the appointment. God damn you, postal service. Next time time your strikes so they don't interfere with my finally getting through eight-month NHS waiting lists.)

I've spent the last few days glad that the wait is finally over and that I might actually be able to get my head some degree of sorted out.

I've even gone so far as to look up the type of therapy I'm going to have on Google, so that I have some idea of what I can expect to happen and don;t look like a complete moron when I actually get into the session.

However. It's now the night before the session and I'm really not sure I want to do this at all. I'm wondering if perhaps I would be better off skipping it and catch up on my sleep, something I appear to be in constant need of doing. What if they can't help me, or I don't want to help myself? What if they think I'm whiny? What if I don't like my therapist?

Part of me, a very large part, just wants to hide under the bed.

So go figure that.


Randomly, I am getting so sick of my landlady's son wandering round in his underwear of an evening that I'm beginning to consider wandering around in mine, in the hope that it'll get it home to him that NOBODY ELSE WANTS TO SEE HIS SHREDDIES. Maybe the sight of my substandard body will clue him into the fact that his own mostly naked form is not even remotely visually appealing either? Desperate times, et cetera...