My quest to seek out some one whom I can pour out my soul to, without having to worry what the person thinks, or what my relationship with that person is, it seems, has finally come to an end. I’ve gotten myself a new pet. His name is Mister Psychiatrist.
Or Misses; I don’t know yet. Well, Yours Truly went to see his doc today, to tell her he needed to talk to some one about his problems. After waiting for an hour, surrounded by coughing eighty-two-year-olds, and kids packed with sugar, behaving like wild animals, I finally got called in. By now you can imagine I was quite fed up, but still calm, mind you. So there I was, sitting in the docs sweaty armchair, trying not to inhale because of the horrendous smell emanating from God knows what. (By the way, I don’t believe in God. (And for you who don’t know what that is, it’s called being an atheist.) Sorry about that, anyways...) She had the nerve to offer me a candy bar, while smiling I might add. I was ready to explode. Let’s just say my face looked like something out of a Greek tragedy.
Even worse, I had to answer her fucking questions: “Why are you depressed? How long has this been going on? Is there any medication you might want to try?