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Mental Health Mondays: Adventures in Psychopharmacology 2 🐰

Adventures in Psychopharmacology Round 2 



There’s an old saying, „Another day, another day deeper in debt.“ I find that to be a perfect metaphor, not just for finance, but for life as well; It also happens to fit in perfectly with the situation I found myself in today. 
I’ve got a new psychopharmacologist. The last one lasted only for one appointment. Did I make her quit? Was I the last straw? I kind of am hoping that it was my fault. I’ve done it before and it always leaves me with a perverse and malicious sense of joy. I’m not given a reason as to why she’s left the clinic and I’m a tad dismayed by it, but I don’t let it show. They want to take my vitals. I hear that and my anxiety rockets through the roof. I began to feel lightheaded, like an overcooked noodle. Keep your shit together, Dan. You can’t let them smell or see fear. Show no weakness. I take a few deep breaths and it helps to calm me a little bit. My pulse slows a bit and the dizziness melts away.  You can do this, mate. I mentally slap myself on the back, just as the door opens up.

She's younger than I expected and pretty. She welcomes me and invites me into her office. It's larger than the last one. She must have quite a degree or two. I wonder if she can help me. "I need to ask you a few questions. The notes of your last provider are lacking." I offer her a smirk, lean back on the faux leather couch and say, "Ask away. I get fan questions and answer oodles of them a day." She returns the smile from her computer. I pop open a diet cola and she says nothing about it. For some reason, my thoughts shift to Matt Damon for a moment. "How are you feeling today?" The age old question. "Fantastical." She asks me what I do for work and I tell her, the entire time my eyes are glittering. "And you like that second job." "Yes. I'm not bothered by it. I love blood." I don't mention my obsession with the different colours, textures, scents. I think that wouldn't be a start on the good foot if I mentioned that.  
She asked me questions on how I'd been lately, have I been self-harming, when did I start self-harming. I answered, and for some reason, I found it oddly funny. And there is a part of me that feels such pleasure when I tell them and show them what I've done. Like I have the strength and ability to do these things to myself, and more often than not, I have the ability to stop myself. I can survive these intense acts of self-harm. And if I can do that, I can do anything. Then rational me whispers to me, "You know that's not true. You're too afraid to drive a car. You're too afraid to sit next to a stranger on a bus. You're shy and awkward. You can't make people like you." Reality. She's a bitch but she can also give you a wonderous lay. 

"Have you ever hurt any animals?" Yes, but not on purpose. I know that if I answer yes, I'll have to explain everything and I could end up trapped her forever or worse, so I say no. Then she asks me about fire. "I love fire. I love the heat, the colours, the sound...but no, I don't set things on fire." She starts to type fast.„I know what you’re looking for.“ My soul is doing cartwheels. Ah, the triad of sociopathy and an assessment of sociopathic tendencies/ behaviours. Could this get any better? „Just checking a few things. Traits of sociopathic behaviours.“ Who wouldn’t, given my history of mischief and complete and utter disregard for others? It’s not that I don’t care about them or actively seek out ways and excuses to hurt others. I just know that we’ve all done things in our lives that warrant punishment. Human nature dictates that there shall be reward or punishment…or is that more of humanity’s empty thinking? I’m holding my breath. My eyes glitter with excitement but she doesn’t see as she’s typing notes. Was that my gross God complex sneaking into the session there? How can I have such a God complex and be so self-loathing at the same time? Yes, I'm a morally bankrupt and emotionally exhausted, but goddamn it, I've handled the world. They're all peasants. I'll probably explore this in a session with Melfi. 

„Oh, I hope my language doesn’t offend you.“ She gives me a brilliant smile. „Not at all.“ I think I’m really gonna like this woman. And you all know my detest for women in general. Yeah, I know. I know. It all goes back to my mum and barbaric tendencies. You know what? Dan doesn’t play that shit. We rehashed some of the old things, my mental health hospitalisations, therapists and such. That bit was rather boring. It never changes each time I tell them. The details are burned into me as if someone took a cattle prod and seared them into my flesh. Oh, wait, I do have scars to remind me of them. HAHA. 

„I’d like to see you in about 6 weeks.“ I flip through my planner and see when I’m free. „I can do it after I get back from tour in Canada.“ „That works out fine. Meanwhile, you can ring me or the front if you have any problems at all.“ „I know and I will if I need anything.“ Chibi face. I leave the office and set up a new appointment with the girl at the front desk. 

I find a smirk etching itself onto my face as I wait for Melfi to come drag me into her office for another session. The trust I’m extended is unbelievable. I get away with so much. I revel in it. I drown in it.  I’ve got Alana Grace echoing through my skull, spinal column and my clavicles. I’m overcome with emotion, thinking about him, everything that’s happened and what I ache to come true. I know they are pathetic, childlike daydreams and I wonder how much longer will I be forced to drown in this loneliness. The door opens and Melfi pops her head through it. „Dan?“ I take a quick peek at the time on my Macbook. 10:43. I take my time collecting my things and head in, pretending that I’m almost in slow motion. „You feeling okay?“ „Just mulling over some things.“ „How was your Christmas? What did you do on Boxing Day and New Years?“ „The same thing I do every year, sit alone and watch horror films, whilst drinking tea and playing with myself.“ „I’ve missed your vivid descriptions of your life.“ „And I’ve missed the horrified faces you make in response to them. Hope you had a good Christmas as well.“ 
It was the usual banter for a bit, sharing little tidbits with one another. I shared with her some of my newest art pieces and she stroked my ego. "You're so talented. I'm amazed to work with someone like you. You're so amazing." She raved about my art, my writing, my blogs and all the things I've got going on for this year. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I feel that it's all a distraction. It was an odd sort of sensation. I'd never really felt the need to protect her on this level. The entire time I've been gleeful, aggressive and rather chipper, hiding the pain beneath sly smiles and off-handed comments. I almost cracked. She asked me what I wanted out of therapy. And I don't know. Can she help me? Will she help me? 
I told her of my concerns. "I'm afraid if I say something you'll send me to the nut hut." I think I caught a glint of nervousness and surprise in her eyes. "I wouldn't do that to you. Unless you were a high risk." Crisis semi-averted. One can never fully trust one with power over another. But of course, I agreed to try and be more open. I also told her that I use her as a white board to bounce ideas off-that I can have a conversation with. But I need more. I want her to give me more. Perhaps, I need to put a little bit more effort into this. Be more open. And not just in occasional notes that I slip to her. I hate when she reads them in front of me and she gets all happy that I've shared something deep. I'm not as shallow as I seem. 

Fuck me, it kind of feels like I’m stuck in a chapter of ‚The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants‘. How did they all have the money to send them to all those places? There’s more to this story than we know. Maybe they were moonlighting on the side? A little skin and sin for a fiver? Perhaps I’m getting carried away with myself here. 

After all the compliments, how do I explain to her that I'm tired of everything? That I don't want to participate? That I feel participation is pointless...that there is completely no meaning to anything. I
suppose my work can speak for me, but that's just it. So many people take it to be an act or a show of literature. It's not. Well, for me personally, it's not. The writing is supposed to be therapeutic and on occasion it is. Most of the time, I'm just looking for a new distraction. I'm unable or unwilling to deal with certain things. I'm not sure which or why. Perhaps I fear that if I open Pandora's Box I'll be sucked in and there will never be an escape. But on some plain aren't I already inside? 

And to think, I just wanted to sleep in and I could have missed all this…Rosie, Jess and I will have a lot to talk about. Sometimes it feels like I’m a cartoon character or like a character on a teen drama despite my age. Is this what they call going through the motions? Or am I purely stepping outside myself for the sake of my own amusement? 
We get to do this all again on the 1st of March. Holy fuck. 
Here’s to you season of the Easter Bunny. 


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