Anxiety(n): realizing you are completely insane

Hello followers,
I realize I have not kept up with my blog in the last few months and I apologize. This is due to the fact that my life as of the last 6 months has become a complete and utter nightmare. I was working and going to school full time and rarely found a moment to void my human of unused fluids, let alone blog about it. To anyone attempting to work a full time job and go to school full time, I salute you, and think you are completely out of your damn tree. But, to each their own.
Anyways, what resulted from this careless reckless disregard for my own life was the development of a very real anxiety disorder. As my psychiatrist explained, if I did not straighten myself out, and fast I could really do some harm to myself. He went on to ask what it was that was causing my anxiety. -Let me just branch off at this moment and explain that is this time, my cat had been urinating on my carpet for about 4 months straight and after working 10 hours and going to class, to come home and clean up cat piss was about enough on its own to make anyone want to jump out a ten story building. Not to mention someone like myself who is generally tense on a daily basis. I learned 2 things from this: (1) My cat is an asshole. (2) Tears do not get cat urine out of a carpet, take that Billy Mays. Anyways, when I proceeded to loose my shit at my large egyptian psychiatrist, whom we will refer to as Pit-Camel, for his likeness to a hybrid pit-bull/camel mix, he explained that my cats urination was probably due to the fact that I was so tense. I did not appreciate his candor on the matter. Especially since the cat made me want to scream on a daily basis and I did not see her letting up any time soon. Although the vet had charged me $1000 in the weeks leading up to my meeting with  the Pit-Camel to diagnose the cat with an anxiety disorder and prescribe her pussy valium, I did not appreciate being blamed for my own stress-inducing situation. If he was going to give me a lecture on what I had done to myself I was ready to tell him to save it and fork over the Ativan.
One the Pit-Camel had decided I had generalized anxiety disorder, and clearly some other issues he did not feel like mentioning, he gave me a variety of uppers downers and candy corn that would have made Karen Walker proud. I aspire to one day be her, and figure this cocktail of antipsychotic medication was defs going to put me on my way to success in that department. I left his office with a lot to think about, and let me tell you, as someone with anxiety disorder, I already statistically spend 60% of my day worrying, and was not impressed with the heaping pile of shit he had dumped on my plate. However, the idea of Ativan intrigued me since I knew that could easily knock out an elephant in crisis, I was steeped to try some. As a rule folks, If it melts on your tongue, its worth participating in, let me tell you...
Upon confirming with Popsicle and Platypus that my psychiatrist thought I was right out of my mind, they both seemed supportive, although not horribly shocked by my diagnosis. I am also the same irrational individual that wants to leave for any air travel 2 hours in advance to account for any acts of god I might encounter on my way to my aircraft. So, I could kind of see where they might be drawing some conclusions.
A month into treatment, some of the fog had cleared and I came to a very important epiphany - I am completely bat shit crazy and really need to seek some sort of professional help if I am scrubbing my toilet 3 times a day and vacuuming anything and everything on a frighteningly regular basis. I could also have been high on lysol fumes, I don't know. I'm not a doctor. The worst part about dealing with my anxiety I had come to realize was the overwhelming amount of fear I was to be assaulted with for no reason during most of my day. It was this large volume of what I knew were completely insane and irrational little concerns that nobody in any sort of mentally healthy state could be feeling that prompted me to seek help.
The Pit-Camel had been trying for a while to get me to see a psychologist. I strongly dislike deep cathartic amounts of feelings and really was not steeped on the idea. The idea that this experience could result in me sobbing uncontrollably and using vast amounts of kleenex, which really has not done much for the environment in terms of 'going green', really pissed me off. The idea that It would be my own fault that I had completely fucked up any emotional and mental stability I had left also did not sit too well. Its like being mentally constipated and it really is a pain in the ass, pun intended. Finally, my new psychologist who has yet to gain a nickname, due to the fact he has yet to see and regret what the heck he signed up for, called. It was already a relatively stressful night for me, for no reason other than the absolutely ludicrous amount of bullshit bouncing around in my brain, when a call came through from something saying 'rehab' in the caller ID title. Because I have anxiety and my brain does not operate like a normal human, let me take you on a little adventure as to what was going through my mind immediately following this phone call:
1. Do not answer! It's probably some coked out drug addict who wants to find out where I live and come eat my cats and harvest my organs for snake food.
2. Text Mancandy so if he finds my dismembered carcass upon arriving to visit me he will know what to tell the cops.
3. Holy shit I'm going to die.
4. How did an addict get my phone number.

After going through that irrational little shit show, I listened to the voicemail and found it was only my new shrink calling to make a meeting.
NEWSFLASH ASSHOLE!, when calling to make an appointment with someone already experiencing anxiety do not add to it by calling from a rehab facility after 8:30pm. Its not smart, and it sent me into a frenzy for which I required valium tea and an Ativan to come down from. Do not fuck around with anxious people, we blow shit way out of proportion. So far, I was not liking my new doctor. He had yet to meet me and was already causing me more problems. Once I spoke with him directly and came down from my drug high, I managed to see that I was excited at the idea of meeting someone who might be able to tell me why I am such a complete fucking nightmare to myself and others, and apparently any wildlife in my vicinity. It was this excitement that prompted me to blog about my experience in my coming sessions as I believe that the only way to cope with mental illness is to be able to see the humor. So, stay tuned for what I am sure will be a whole host of reasons why my life is not together from a licensed professional.