A post for which I can't think of a pithy title

So. I, uh, finally broke down after all of the stupid, small stuff (you know, the stuff you aren't supposed to sweat? In other words, everything.) Any I got gently reminded by a few people that my level of strung-outness (which is totally not a word, I know, but humor me, because I'm crazy here) wasn't OK. And since I've been "not OK" for, like, two years almost (probably longer, but pregnancy induced crazy is excused) it was time for me to do something to get OK. And so I called my doctor's office, and a very concerned sounding nurse advised that I should talk to my HR department and find out about the mental health coverage under my company's health plan, since we've already done blood and thyroid and such testing to verify that my fatigue and edginess is not physical. And I just wanted her to say "I understand that you've already diagnosed yourself because you've been obsessively reading every piece of information you can find about generalized anxiety disorder to try to convince yourself that you really don't fit the profile, when it's painfully clear that you do, indeed, fit the profile to a T. Here's a prescription for Paxil." And so I called my OB/GYN to ask for some referrals, because I figured that they have to deal with lots and lots of anxious mommies who want to try to deny that they are really in trouble, since it can all be explained away by the kids and the job and the everthing, right? Except it really can't, because even a stressed out mommy shouldn't have her heart go in her throat everytime the phone rings, convinced that the baby fell and hit his head and Gramma is on the way to the ER as we speak. And a normal employee who has had nothing but good reviews for her entire tenure should not be so upset about having a mid-year review that she literally cannot eat during the morning of the meeting with her boss. I spent the entire ride back from NY (a trip in which I kept waiting to hear someone talking about how much of a dork I was, trying to be cool and all) rehearsing in my head how I was going to justify to DH that I needed help. I was so ready for every reason he would tell me that I was being ridiculous. What he really said was, "OK. Do whatever you have to do to get better." Anyway, the OB/GYN nurse gave me some names, and I took another two days to work up the nerve to ask the HR department for the procedure for getting approvals for mental health visits. And when our benefits person explained the features of the website for looking for providers, when she told me about how I could customize the search by specialty, all I could focus on was that she mentioned "dietary" more than once, and now I am wanting to manipulate things so that she can see me eat (normal amounts, though! No binges!) I'm so desperately trying to let go of the fact that I think she thinks I have an eating disorder. Because I don't! Really! You need to believe me! But I realized that I am terrified of starting over with a new doctor, and that any doc I find close to home would require me to go to appointment that would mean I had to miss more work than if I found someone close to the office. And missing all that work would probably piss my boss off, right? Because I'm such a slacker, and he can't stand to have me work for him and all? Not that I'm being overly anxious or paranoid or anything. And after another day of psyching myself up, I called the office of the very nice counselor who has done some of the EAP seminars here, who seems like a very nice guy and easy to talk to. And I got his voicemail, so I am jumping everytime the phone rings, and being alternately relieved and disappointed that he hasn't called back yet, because explaining what the heck is wrong isn't easy. "Well, I just feel nuts. My job is fine, and my marriage is fine, and I'm doing OK money-wise, and my husband loves me, and my family is really supportive of me, but I am so tightly coiled that I am about to explode." So now I am leaving work early so that I can go sit in a conference with DD's teacher about the fact that I am a freakazoid, lousy mother whose daughter does not have the basic skills to survive first grade. And then I will go home to my son, who was kicked out of gymnastics class (again!) for pushing other children. And I need to specifically avoid referring to myself as "insane" in DH's presence, since when I did so the other night, he looked at me all seriously and said in a low tone (the kind you use when you don't want to set off the crazy people,) "You are not insane." And I try and try and try to take the next step towards normal. But I'm afraid of a very long road.