Today has been very creative and productive. It’s been the first good day in over a week, so YAY for that! I worked on my novel, of which I’ve written around 29,000 words so far (I always aim for 74,000 to 78,000 total). So it’s coming along. I feel like it’s missing something so far, but I have faith in my ability to figure out what that is and include it.
I heard back from some EMDR practitioners today. Not good news. One said she isn’t doing anything in person anytime soon, and she doesn’t know how to do EMDR online. (That’s a bad option for me, anyway, because I’m not very tech-savvy.) The other said he has one person on staff who does EMDR, and who’s my insurance provider? I wrote back and said I’d self-pay, and I got no response. Never a good sign, especially when their costs aren’t listed on the website. (I guess it’s easier to milk an insurance company than a self-paying customer.)
I also wrote a letter to Dr. Phlegm and put it in the mail. It was a good letter, I think. Four pages of fun. Here are some excerpts:
I hope this correspondence finds you well. I called your office, and the machine said you’re only seeing people “in person” if they’re new patients. None of my personalities are new [ba-da-ping!], so… I’ll just wait for you to be back in the office.
[…] I felt awful: shaky, weak, fatigued, steamrollered, crampy, and headachy, and that was before my period started affecting my mind. It was all downhill from there. I haven’t seen The Exorcist, but I’d imagine it applies.
[…] The egos of professional psychologists genuinely scare me. Very fragile. Even more fragile than the egos of writers, and I would know. I’ve had similarly bad experiences with a dozen other therapists. I think the whole profession is quackery. So, if I find a new EMDR practitioner, I’ll make sure that all we do together is EMDR. No talk. No insight. That way, my good mood can’t be grossly misconstrued.
Do I get points for the rhyme there?
[…] But I’m not exaggerating about how godawful my period was. There was weeping in the streets. Oh, wait, that was the civil unrest. Anyway.
The most fun thing about being a writer is that everything–and I do mean everything–becomes a fun writing prompt. Writing a letter to the psychiatrist morphs into a fun form of creative expression! Why bore the man? He’s not paid enough for that.
Uh oh, I’m falling asleep. Woooo! I might get wacky. No one panic. I’ve got it under control. It’s all… under… control.
And after a day filled with happiness, she’s out like a light, falling asleep in her magical universe.