I have an appointment with M this morning at 10:30.
The thing is, I have to get there on my own, seeing as though Ginger is at work. I have two options.
One – I can go by taxi.
Two – I can bike there.
Both options scare the shit out of me. If I go by taxi, it means getting into a car with a stranger. Not that I’m worried about anything that they’ll do, but I hate interacting with people. Plus, I know I’ll be judged because I’m going to the pscyhology department, and it’ll be obvious that I have an appointment, because I’ll need picking up an hour later. Anyway, what if I’m upset afterwards? Taxi drivers round here like to converse as if they’ve known you forever…
d e e p b r e a t h . . .
Okay, so what about going by bike? Well, it’ll be the furthest I’ve been, and it’ll mean I have to go onto some of the busier roads. I’ll have the adrenaline, thanks to the anxiety that I’ve been whipping up this morning, so powering my pedals isn’t going to be a problem – until I come back, that is. See, it’s mostly uphill coming back. If I have to get off and push, I’ll feel too exposed- it’s hard to explain. I call it the skirt-tucked-in-your-knickers syndrome. It’s that feeling you get when you go out and you know you’ve forgotten something, or something’s not quite right.
I know what will be going through my mind on the way there, regardless of how I go.
“Did I lock the door? Did I switch off the coffee maker? I’m sure I forgot to lock the door… Have I got my phone? Have I got any money? What if there’s no-one there when I get there… Did I lock the door?…”
In fact, I have already started planning this, making sure my phone is charged, and I have put some money in my purse. I’m leaning towards going by bike, so I’ve made sure my lock is wrapped around the handlebars, and on Sunday when Ginger and I drove past the hospital, I looked and made sure there was somewhere to lock my bike up. I’ve programmed the Psych department’s number into my phone just in case. I’ll go early, mostly so I can catch my breath and calm down again. I have my little backpack organised, and I’ve put my battered copy of “The Fellowship of the Ring” in it, so I don’t have to glare at the walls, and the posters advertising helplines and groups for people with every possible mental problem there is.
I hope I can do this. I have this horrible image of me calling them and saying I can’t make it. That would be worse than anything, because it would be failure.