Words Sent and Received….

 My therapist sent me another letter, replying to my reply. At the beginning of it she basically made me feel ashamed for feeling like I want to kill myself at times. Saying that I’ve not really had much loss in my life–no devastating war or death and whatever else she threw at me. I basically told her in my letter that I was totally unmotivated for life and that I wanted nothing, and would rather not be here at all than to pretend I want what everyone else my age (or otherwise) is supposed to want.

So anyway, when she started telling me how I’ve really not had it bad in life, I started to get angry. But as I read on I could see she was trying to make the case that she thinks I have “biological chronic depression” and that it’s gone a long time without being “properly treated”.

Chronic depression might be what this is, but with the beginning of that letter still fresh in my mind, I was starting to feel once again that my moods are all made up, that I’m causing all of this, allowing myself to stay obsessed and stuck. She went on to suggest that I get a psychiatrist who can give me some medication to help it out.

I’d also mentioned before in my letter to her that I could never say all I needed to say face to face with any therapist I’ve had. I was and still am afraid of the consequences of even hinting to an outsider that I’ve been suicidal–whether right now or in the past. She responded to that in this new letter by saying that only if a plan is included would there be any consequences. Being held for a time and all that.

I’m guessing none of that’s going to work with me, because if I have a plan I’m not going to tell a soul. Especially someone who has the power to tell and have me held up. Since I told her I think my parents insurance is going to drop me because of my age and unemployment, she included a list of mental health centers I could go to for a psychiatrist who wouldn’t cost me an arm and a leg to see.

I don’t think I’m going to follow through with any of it though. I just don’t care anymore. I should be in better spirits right now, because my brother who’s been away in jail for a year comes home sometime tomorrow. But all I seem to be able to do is wallow in how stupid my existence feels, and in shame for feeling bad for even one moment of it.

Distraction. I’ve got lots of stuff to read; I’m writing a lot (unfortunately it’s all about the same thing), and I finally have ink to print my art. None of it means a thing, but at least I have not injured myself. A glimmer of hope came about today when I heard of the job openings at my father’s second job. It’s a job where you call up people for surveys. I’m just going to apply and keep my mind as far away from failure as I can while I do so.