I met with my therapist today, and we mutually agreed that I would not immediately transition to the psychiatrist. I was a freaky mess even just talking about it, crying and shaking. Her theory is that I have a lot of transition going on right now, and right now is not a good time to abruptly go from seeing her to the psychiatrist in the span of one week. I’ve been seeing her for 6 years, and I’ve accomplished a great deal with her in that time. There were many times when I felt she was the only one in the world who cared about me, and there were times that the only thing in the crevices of my mind that kept me from going too far in my suicidal ideation was the fact that I did not want to leave her with the burden of my suicide, especially with all the help she had given me.
So, I’ll transition in a few weeks to the psychiatrist. It feels like the right way to do this.
In other news, the new office space at work feels like a scene from Hoarders. There are boxes and loose papers everywhere around us. The previous owner of my desk must have had a fondness for jam sandwiches, or something with jam. I went to open a desk drawer today and found the handles sticky with old jam. I nearly retched. I cleaned the outside of one drawer before the heebies set in again. I stayed far away from that nasty desk today.
So, I knew I needed to try to be good to myself after my session given the way I was feeling. I went grocery store shopping for dinner, and I found myself being drawn to Muenster cheese and sandwich bread. I decided I would have a cheese sandwich for dinner, and it oddly put a smile on my face.
Muenster cheese reminds me of my grandma, Mama Titi. She was called Titi because my cousin Steve pronounced her first name, Beatriz, as Titi. Mama Titi would get a big block of Muenster cheese on a regular basis as a government commodity. She would make me quesadillas with that cheese, and, sometimes, it was the best food I’d had all week. The gooey quesadillas on fresh soft tortillas were a great big hearty hug for a sad and hungry girl.
This past winter I went to the residential center at McLean Hospital for three weeks. For lunch they provided a stocked pantry and refrigerator from which you could make your own lunch. I was so freaked out being around so many strange people that I did not want to linger in that kitchen. So, my lunch was a cheese sandwich because it was the quickest and easiest thing to make. After the third day at McLean, I was no longer too scared to linger in the kitchen. But by then the cheese sandwich had become a source of comfort for me. It remained a regular part of my lunch rotation the entire time I was there.
At McLean I started to feel hopeful again. With my grandmother I felt hope and comfort, and so it goes for the cheese sandwiches that remind me of both of them.