Part Two

So I've just accidentally killed the squirrel. And really, it's just a squirrel. Although it's awful, it's not AWFUL. Because it's just a squirrel. But when you're cracking up, your responses to things are out of proportion. It scares me to think had the squirrel been a cat I might have laughed. I don't know. I was not well in the head.

But.

But I have a dozen years of therapy under my belt (which will claim until the day I die were a big waste of time and money). And I have the two plus years of extra special therapy from my private high school, which was worth so much more than the dozen years of shrinkage. So even if I was cracking, the good thing was, due to all that therapy, I knew I was cracking.

I knew that it was a bad sign that I often found myself standing in the blazing Florida sun, in the parking lot of my office, crying hysterically to my mother or brother via cell phone about how overwhelmed I was at work that I didn't know what to do first. I knew that it was a bad sign that every day after work, I immediately got into bed and pretty much stayed there until the next morning.

I was cracking. And I knew I needed professional help. Finding professional help in South Florida when you don't have insurance is not easy. I kept calling places, only to be told they would first have to do a four hour, $700 evaluation. Or that they were not accepting new patients. Or that they were only open between 1:34 and 1:37 p.m. the sixth Tuesday of each prime numbered month. "Are you going to kill yourself?" they'd ask me. "You're making me WANT to kill myself by not helping me." Click.

The very thin rope I was holding on by was fraying quickly. I didn't want to be put into a hospital on a suicide watch. I didn't need that. It would solve none of my problems. What I needed was for somebody to sit down and help me figure out how to grab back control of my life.

I called my brother. He suggested I hang in there, and in the meantime, put in for vacation and come visit him. So I asked for a week off from work.

I called my mother. My mother, who has a background in psychology. My mother, who supports therapy wholeheartedly for me if I need it (as long as I won't be bitching at her). My mother, who did (and does) nothing all day except eat, watch tv, send people lame forwards of e-mails she gets, and sleep.

"Mommy will you please help me? I need a therapist. I don't care if it's a psychologist or LSW or anything. I'll go anywhere except Miami. I can get there by 6 p.m., and sliding scale would be great, but I'll put it on my credit card if I need to. Please just find me somebody. I'm at work and can't keep sneaking away to make private phone calls. Please get me help."

"Zoe, I'm sorry, but I'm very busy. I don't know who to call in Florida. I don't know how to help you."

OH MY GOD. Are you freaking KIDDING me? Did you just tell your only daughter who you claim to love oh so much that you are too busy watching to see if Lily and Holden get back together on As the World Turns to help her find psychological help before she loses it completely? You, the mother who always said "I just want you to be happy and healthy" are turning your back on your daughter who is telling you she is not healthy or happy and getting steadily worse?

That was the beginning of the end. Right there, when my mother refused to help me. That was when I lost a huge chunk of respect for her. That was when I stopped believing most things she'd say that centered around her loving and caring about me. Because when I needed help, I followed the rules. I asked for help. I didn't do subtle signs. I was direct. I NEED HELP. PLEASE HELP ME. And my mother didn't help me. My mother was the type of person to say "I will always be your mother, even when you're an adult. As long as I'm alive, I will always be here for you."

I was 27 at the time.

So, did you ever get help, you ask? No, never from anyone in Florida. I got a two or three hour phone call from an acquaintence I'd barely known and helped months prior. I sat on the floor in the doorway of my bedroom while we talked and when we were hanging up, I was calmer. Turned out she was psycho herself and I stopped having anything to do with her within a couple of months, but that one night, she helped.

I held it together enough to fly to San Francisco, interview and get a job offer, and ultimately move here two weeks after that phone call. Talk about getting the hell out of Dodge.