When I downloaded this image, I immediately saw it as a pilgrim, on his knees, wearing a flat-topped hat, extending his arms with an offering on a tray, to his deity, Queen Bee, sitting on her rose-coloured pad, beneath a floral umbrella.
Other pilgrims are queuing with their offerings.
Perhaps I should take a copy of the picture to my psychiatric appointment next week?
Perhaps not. I resisted wearing pajamas and a beanie with propeller to my “intake” session. Just went as me.
One gets asked all the routine questions: Smoke? Drink? Drugs? Married? Children? Suicide Attempts? Admitted to Psychiatric Hospital? No, no,no,no,no,no,no.
It made me feel like the world’s most boring person. Did I ever do anything?
When you request an appointment for psychiatric consultation, you don’t get to chose the doctor and I’m not even sure they have a female I could have requested at this practice.
Their women are relegated to “therapy”, ie: talk.
Which is the last thing I want to do. I talked for 30 years. I know all my “stuff”. I packed it up tightly and threw it away before coming back to New York.
It’s not that I object to male doctors. It’s just that men have so often pissed me off!
But my chemistry is in need of adjustment and for this one needs an expert. At the moment I am vulnerable to all my “triggers” which makes me somewhat ogre-like.
And inclined to spontaneously weep, which is inconvenient although, as I rarely go out now, at least there is no risk of my upsetting people by suddenly howling over the choice of produce in Hannaford’s.
You may ask how this could happen, but for months after my beloved Panther died, I was apt to get an attack of the waterworks at any moment, convenient or not.
There are people who understand, I know, but there are many more who believe this could only happen to a batty old woman.
“Control yourself!” I can hear my father say. Yes, well it’s not controllable. It’s as if I have inside me a bottomless pit of inconsolable grief that tries to suck my heart out. That’s what it feels like, physically.
The “grief pit” is contained behind the most fragile membrane that can be torn by a wrong word, a wrong image, a wrong passage in a book, so many random things. Often I don’t even know what was the cause.
The right medication strengthens the protective membrane. Which is the only way I know how to explain it.
It really is not self-indulgence or attention-seeking.
Well enough of that tedious topic. Here’s another one:
This year my marigolds have done awfully well and I’ve tried several times to capture suitable photographs, but no matter what I do, I don’t care for the result.
It’s possibly because I actually detest the colours red and yellow together. So why plant marigolds?
Well, I was sort of expecting them to be orange, like the ones that used to make me sneeze. These don’t for some reason.
Anyway, it’s nice to still have some colour, now that most of the other flowers are finished.
Even if it’s not one I like! I do appreciate my marigolds!