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Mental Health Mondays: She Doesn't Want Me Anymore

Last Tuesday I went to my regular therapy session, but it wasn't like any of the others that I've had so far. In fact, for the first 15-20 minutes we bullshitted about our favourite programmes, I offered some insights into my favourites, you know help her add a little more to her painting of me, and shared a laugh or two. After I convinced her to get hooked on Dexter and Six Feet Under (Micheal C. Hall anyone? Um, yes please.) she asked me how I was doing. I told her about what I was up to, then when she turned to enter some session notes into her computer I started laughing. "What's funny?" "The depression is so fucking bad! You have no idea!" And I said it while giggling and with a broad grin on my face. "But you're laughing...?" Her voice kind of faded away. "Yes! That's because I can't process the level of emotional devastation that I'm feeling! It's a complete defence mechanism! If I were to reveal how I actually felt without doing this, I'd probably shatter here on the floor! I can't control it at all, it's just what's programmed into me." "Oh, Daniel." "I know! It's hilarious and devastating at the same time!" The giggles continued. 
"What do you think is wrong with me?"
"I don't know if I can help you. You're a soup of diagnosis. A combination of mental illness. You've got some of anti-social personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, bipolar. You're a very unique case. I've never seen anything like this before. You know so much about your own pathology based on your education, instincts and understanding of psychological models and theories. You are exceptionally bright, but I think that you know more than I do. I don't know what I've ever done to help you. I don't think I can help you." My eyes glittered. Did I just break another shrink? "You're like a white board to me. Someone I can share my theories and ideas with. I use you to work out problems. I use you to gauge where I know I'm lacking; You have normal human emotions, I'm morally bankrupt and void of guilt and remorse, but I feel my own emotions so deeply. I have a hard time identifying with others-feeling as they do, but I understand the emotion and know how to fake it. And my deep self-hatred and paralysing suicidal depression? That's rather a mystery to me still, as I have such a fucking God complex it would make you sick. The two are complete opposites, yet I still possess both."  "Times up, Dan. I'll see you two weeks from now, or maybe not it depends on Easter and my son." I stopped listening. Her tone and body language told me that she was uncomfortable and didn't want to see me. "I will probably call to cancel, I'm not sure yet." Ah, the trying to let me down easy approach. That actually pisses me off more than people direct with me. I left with a warped sense of pride and a tingle of anger at her rejection of me. 

The week descended into complete chaos from there. 
Pookie came round and was poking her dick into places it doesn't belong. She noticed my wrist when I was making noodles and asked me what happened. She's actually seen me a few times in the past year and she never once noticed? Earlier, when the suicide attempt in LA happened, for some stupid and pathetic reason, I tried to reach out to her. She was playing the 'Oh, I care card', which turned out to be just another way to skank things from me. I showed her the fucking wound when it was fresh, as I'd taken photos as it was gushing and I showed her one after it had stopped. Showed her what I did to myself. Wouldn't you remember your child doing that? Gashing their flesh open and allowing themselves to bleed on the floor for almost 20 minutes. Fuck, I think most people would remember that, even if the person who did it wasn't their child. She had no fucking idea. I was angry over that and simply told her, "It's been like that for years." She felt the rest of my left arm. "What happened? Are these burns?" And I replied, "No. They're scars from me cutting myself. All of this is from me cutting myself with razors, broken glass, etc. I've been doing it since I was 11 years old." Then I got the old-fashioned eye roll. I wanted to punch her in the fucking mouth. "Well, I only heard about it when you were 15." She turned and walked away and I muttered under my breath, "Because you're a judgemental cunt."  She didn't even care that it had gotten increasingly worse. And then she wonders why I detest her with the utmost of passion. My grandparents also have "noticed" Hello, you've seen me all this time and only NOW you want to ask about it? No thanks. You weren't there before and I don't want you here now. I already know you think it's disgusting and you make jokes about me being "crazy". None of that shit helps, so just piss off. They all act like they give a shit, but when I actually need them to listen, they all don't want to hear about it and think it's some sort of game. Oh, yes a real knee-slapper of a game. Twats. 

The following day I started drinking. Cocktails disguised as milkshakes, disguised as fun. I knew what was hidden between the layers of Baileys, ice-cream and whipped cream. I knew what I was doing as I washed down anti-anxieties, anti-depressants and those beautiful sedating tablets that make dragons snake through my brain, tie me down and make it impossible for me to move. I allowed the self-hatred to bubble up through my ribs. I allowed that familiar sorrow that is damn near impossible to put into words. It's like a volcano, spewing hot magma like depressive sadness with bits of anger sprinkled throughout it like rocks. I laid out on the floor, feeling the air enter and exit my lungs. Who designed this wonderful balance? Childhood memories saturate me and I'm a child once again. I look at the world through my old eyes and things are overly simplistic. I believe in magic and miracles once again. I could endlessly dance in the rain, humming the tunes of my favourite songs. I could curl up in my blankets and turn myself into a sushi roll. The song changes and my thoughts explode in a vivid burst of colour. My breathing slows down and I count the seconds between breaths and exhalations. It strikes me that I'm alive, not suspended as I've been feeling. Trapped in this glass cage with no means of escape...I had to navigate the kitchen in this state, cooking and having people pick up their meals. I floated through the kitchen as if I were a fairy on acid. So light and airy. It almost felt as if I could fly. For some reason, the song "Red, Red Wine" was playing in my head and I started to giggle as I chopped up the fixings for my salad.
I didn't even take 3 bites of the goddamn thing before I fell asleep in it. I pushed myself to the limits and it was time to say goodnight. This cycle continued through Thursday, except for the morning; I managed to give my home a forensic level cleaning. Yep, Chez Dan is in perfect museum like quality once again, if that goddamn kid doesn't fuck it up. I was so pissed off with Peaches than in my drunken, drugged up mindset I went in and smashed some of her things.
The weekend continued with alcohol, pill mixing and abusive self-harm, more than I suppose is the "acceptable norm." I laid in bed, music pouring over me thoughts of death and escape seducing my weakened frame. In my sore and noodle like state, I laid there through album after album. I was out of my body, but somehow still trapped in my head. It was a weekend of anger, depression and sorrow. No, it was a week of that. I spiralled out of control and I don't know what's going to happen next. 

 I am the bi-product of two people who should have never procreated. I am the bi-product of two people who were neglectful, unaccommodating and often cruel. And when I, little Daniel was born, what did they see for me? Did they even see a future? Judging by the outcome of me at age 17, no, they didn't. I didn't see a future. I still don't see a future and here I am 25. Ideas of death give me hope. Then I will settle into the infinite stars of the universe and I will feel nothing but complete calm.
Until next time, this is Dan signing off. 
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Location: London Borough of Islington, Vereinigtes Königreich

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