As you begin down the path toward better mental health, it’s important to keep in mind that progress is not a steady slope. It’s normal to experience setbacks along your journey, and while no one is expecting you to be Superman or anything, there’s also nothing wrong with having an aversion to your own kind of Kryptonite, whatever that may be.
That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway, because, after a year of treating my social anxiety, my doctor has the nerve to say that I need to be the one to call the pharmacy to get a refill on my prescription. And I fucking hate talking on the phone.
Seriously, it’s bad enough opening up to my psychiatrist about how I started dreading what the cashier thought of me after I accidentally brought fourteen items into his “Ten Items or Fewer” lane at Ralphs that one time. Now I’m supposed to ring up Walgreens every time I need to get some more Prozac like this is the freaking 90s or something?
What, do computers that don’t have to hear how weird and annoying my voice sounds over the phone just not exist anymore?
I was doing so well, too. Last month, I was even able to do some bird watching at the park without having to fear what would happen if I ran into someone I knew from high school. I wish I was still that carefree, and now it feels like all of the progress I’ve made is slowly slipping away. All because my “therapist” thinks I should spend a couple of minutes of my time every few months getting the pharmacy on the horn. Why? So they can make fun of me for mispronouncing my own name like the absolute moron that they must think I am? Because I know that that’s exactly what they’re doing.
I even had to cancel on my best friend at the last minute this week for his birthday party at the local bowling alley. We got matching outfits and everything, but what if the neon bowtie and suspenders looked great on him but I ended up looking like a complete dweeb, making me the laughingstock of Gutter Ballz? I don’t think I could’ve handled that humiliation, which is totally real and not at all something based on some sort of alternate reality where the world revolves around making fun of me.
The pharmacy tried calling me this morning, but I was either in too much of a panic or too cured of my anxiety to answer it. So they left me a voicemail saying that I could expect my prescription to be delivered to my apartment instead, and I’d just need to sign for it and I’d be all set for the next year. But I’m not ready to talk to the mailman—what would he think of me?