This afternoon I saw my new dermatologist (my old one stopped accepting my insurance), and I showed up with a list of problems. Eight, to be exact. I’ll spare you the details, but the doctor listened then answered my questions one-by-one. Always overly worked-up about any health concern, I half-expected him to say, “It’s hopeless–you’re a leper,” but he didn’t. As a matter of fact, he acted as if he’d seen it all before, which I suppose he has. Anyway, he said I should keep an eye on a small cyst, recommended I use different powder to keep my skin dry, and cauterized some broken blood vessels on my face (ouch). Then he said, “As for your moles, don’t grow any more. There–another problem solved.”

When I left the dermatologist’s office, I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get a duplicate registration for my antique car. (I lost my old registration.) According to the “take a number” number I took when I walked in, there were forty people ahead of me. Since there were a hundred the last time I stopped by, I decided to stay.

Y’all, I seriously think the DMV was modeled after one of Dante’s Circles of Hell. It’s not cute to look at, the lighting is terrible, and the chairs are uncomfortable. (Clearly a gay man was not involved in the design process.) Additionally, everyone who goes there has to wait, and yet there aren’t any magazines to look at, nor is there any coffee to drink. Even the place where I get my oil changed has coffee! The people who work at the DMV call out numbers one-by-one, but if you don’t jump straight up like a jackrabbit when it’s your turn, they skip right over you. (Three-thousand and forty-six!) It’s worse than bingo at the Methodist church. And when they do call your number, it’s not like you get to ride Space Mountain or anything fun as a reward for all your time in line. Nope–you get to hand them money.

What a racket.

After it was all said and done, I think I spent about forty-five minutes at the DMV today, and the replacement registration only cost me a dollar. So life could be worse. (Could it, Marcus?) Afterwards, I went to Walmart to pick up the powder the dermatologist recommended. Y’all, I was so excited because the doctor gave me a coupon–two whole dollars off! I would normally shudder to use a coupon, but my standards have, quite frankly, plummeted as of late. So I found the powder, pulled out my coupon, and got in line. (Again, with the waiting.) Well, I immediately got pissed off because the cashier started talking to the customer in front of me about her brother-in-law, who recently had a stroke. She went on and on about it, then told the customer, “Have a blessed day.”

Okay. I’m not TRYING to be a complete dick here. I’m sorry this lady and her family have problems. I get it–I’ve got problems to. (I write a blog about them.) But as a former business owner, I just don’t think it’s appropriate to verbally vomit on your customers. All right–so this was the mood I was in–a little irritated–and then it was my turn to check out. Handing the lady the powder, I proudly presented my coupon. Well, shit. She said it was expired. Realizing I hadn’t even bothered to look at the print on the back, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Okay.” But then she held the coupon in my face and recited the expiration date to me. “Twelve, thirty-one, two-thousand-seventeen.”

I said, “I believe you.”

Waving the coupon around as if she were swatting at flies, she replied, “Sometimes they print them really small, but this clearly says it expired a few months ago.”

I said, “I believe you.”

Oh my gosh, I was so mad. Like, let it go, lady. (Let it go, Marcus.)

After this disconcerting encounter, I saw my therapist. For a while we discussed my health and how I’ve felt so beat-down, kicked-around, and worn-out lately. My therapist said, “I’m not a medical doctor, but I think you’re going to outlive all of us. This is a difficult patch for you, but I really believe you’re going to come through it.” Then she said, “We’ve entered a new part of the woods in your warrior training. (She’s never referred to our sessions as “warrior training” until today–GRRR!) This is the part where you have to keep believing in yourself no matter how difficult things get.”

Y’all, I hate this part.

Later my therapist and I (the grammar nerd in me almost called the blog, My Therapist and I) discussed my upcoming blog birthday. Today’s blog is number 347, so that means that in less than three weeks, I will have met my original goal–one year–365 days in a row of writing. I can’t tell you how much this stresses me out. Granted, on one hand, I’m getting excited. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished here and intend to celebrate. On the other hand, I’m terrified because I don’t know what to do next. Do I keep blogging or do I quit and work on other projects? If I keep blogging, do I change topics–do I change blogs? These are questions I ask myself.

This evening I’ve been feeling “all the pressure.” When I got home earlier, I noticed a red patch of skin that must have “flared up” after I left the dermatologist office, so I’ve been freaking out about it. What if something is horribly wrong? Also, I’ve been thinking that I’ve “got” to figure out the blog. My therapist and I discussed the possibility of my adding a donation page for those who would like to support me and this project (something I’ve been hesitant to do), and I’ve been worried about making “the right” decision.

Honestly, I’m overwhelmed. Life has been a lot to handle for quite a while now, and my plate is full. (Did you hear that, Lord? My plate is full. F-U-L-L, full.) I know this is why I’m irritated by every little thing and am overly concerned that something else, even something small, will go “wrong.” This last weekend I was at a coffee shop, and a little kid came out of the bathroom and was trying to open the door to go outside. Just a toddler, he was leaning on it with his entire body. Looking at me, he said, “I’m not strong enough to open it.” This is what life feels like for me lately, like I’m doing every damn thing I can here, and doors still aren’t opening.

Yes, I did help the little kid open the door. And since then, I really have been working on coming around to the idea of letting others help and not trying to do everything myself. Today my dermatologist said, “Call us if things get out of hand.” (Uh, sir, things got out of hand a long time ago.) I know my therapist is there if I need her. I still haven’t settled everything from the car accident I was in last year, and tonight I had two attorney friends say, “Let us know when you want us to step in. We do this all the time.” This is really good for me to remember, that I’m not alone in all this, that just because I’m struggling doesn’t mean I’m struggling alone. We all walk through the woods together.