Catastrophizing My Life

"It's important that we don't catastrophize."

That's the first time that I've ever heard of that word before. Catastrophize. Dr D. wrote it on the whiteboard, that's how I know how to spell it. He was talking about how the group of us see the world. The conference room table was bracketed by a group of six oddballs, including me. We sat there like punch clowns, waiting to be slapped around. This is my anxiety group.

"We have a tendency to create phobias because we catastro- phize. We build the worst possible outcome for all of our actions. It causes us to avoid things, such as social interaction, positive thinking, assertive behaviors." You're telling me. I see catastrophe every where I turn. I am always avoiding something because the outcome of my actions would be disastrous. I sit back and sigh as we go through our relaxation technique. We are taught how to relax during stressful episodes, call up the inner calm and shit like that.

I cheat. I take LYRICA for that shit. Why do I cheat? Because there is no inner calm within me. Ever since I stopped drinking my nerves have been frayed. I don't know if it's from the coffee that I consume or the lack of CH3CH2OH in my bloodstream. I know when I got wired a sip or two of hooch made everything doable. Shit, I was a maniac. I could handle every situation imaginable. If you were to tell me six years or so ago that I would be in an anxiety group because I can't stop 'catastrophizing' I would tell you that you must be out of your mind. Sheeeit. I used to walk off my job and drink all night in a topless bar, and didn't give a shit what was going on back at the ranch. And when I did stumble in, I whipped up something that looked like I did work all night and staggered out in the morning. I had not a care even though at that time I was ACTUALLY COURTING CATASTROPHE.

It's funny, what caused me to loose my job was not alcohol, or sleeping/ drinking/ drinking on the job/chasing topless women/ playing pool all night in local bars/fucking up/showing UP to work too fucked up TO work/hospitalized from drinking, but rather because I didn't come in to work one night but said that I did. Isn't that fucking ironic. I fucked up sober. Well, not exactly sober, but sober when I made the decision not to go in.

I got my ass out of my group session and got back on the Way. One of the Adminis- trators at The Box had sent me an email, to come down and pick up my mail. I headed over and when walking back up the steps of the Bleecker street station and out into the afternoon light, it was like re-living a dream. I went through The Box, not seeing anyone that I was there with, but new faces. The only constants were the doctors, my ILS and the administrators. I could not wait to leave it. I had spent enough time in The Box. I don't actually see the logic of spending any more.

After a stop at the library, and at Madison Starbucks, looking for my brother but not finding him, I headed uptown to go food shopping. I went to the tiny Associated food store, with the cramped aisles. They honestly shouldn't let more than five people in the store at one time so that you can get some shopping done. And shopping is hard enough, but I thought that I saw it all tonight. A young couple is walking through the store, both carrying baskets and both with a cell phone pressed against their ear. Shopping and talking. Whenever they find something on the shelf that they want, they reach out with their gun hand, and with fingertips, pull whatever it is out far enough so that it falls from the shelf and into their basket.

I swear to God I wanted to fall onto these two comedians like a corpse, tackling them to the floor and then beat living shit out of them with their baskets. Then stuff canned foods in their mouths along with their cell phones.

But the antics doesn't stop there. I go to a register where this cashier is busy tooling around with some papers on the conveyor. I go and ask her if she is open and she shakes her head. Fine, I go to moron number two behind her. Now here she is, talking in Spanish to an old man with a bag of apples. Now while they are doing all of this, I load up the conveyor with my goods, which takes some time, and when I'm done, moron number two is counting the money from this old man with ONE FUCKING BAG OF APPLES!! What the fuck is going on here lady??!! Well, I wanted to say that, but the catastrophizing side of my brain ruled against it because I didn't want to make the cashier angry, and make a scene where the cops had to come in because she produced a razor and slashed my face wide open.

And that is what Dr. D. was talking about. I stand quietly as two things happen: 1) she finishes with the old man, and 2) she rings through all of my shit in no time flat. I was bagged and leaving in what felt like seconds. Still her attitude was deplorable and needs addressing...by someone other than me. I'm going home.

I leave, with two hands filled with grocery bags and work my way home. Then I return to the streets, this time going to Duane Reade to buy a few odds and ends. My last cashier of the night is exhausted. She picks up my items tiredly and scans them across a scanner and shoves them into a ready bag. She sighs, wearisome of the effort, "Do you have your Duane Reade card?" I hand it over, and that too is almost too heavy for her to lift as she scans it and hands it back.

The first thing that I thought of was that her hours were too long.

Mine were too, lady. Mine were too.

Hobobob