Danyul Goes to Therapy: My Therapist Forgot About Me
I feel my insides humming as I prepare my things for therapy. Phone. iPod. Laptop. Dayplanner. Pork Chop. My stomach does a hideous lurch when I recall my unfinished paperwork. A voice somewhere inside me whispers,"Maybe you can get some of this stress off your back and get back to being productive. You work is due in a month and you're nowhere near being finished. Let it together, motherfucker!" I don't want to leave the house, but I really don't have a choice. I need this. I'm held together by threads that are growing thinner every day.
I feel the day starting to warm up around me. Its only 14C but it feels at least 10 degrees hotter. Is there humidity in the air? I don't have much of a choice. It's either black shorts or heatstroke. I'm going with the shorts. Then again, heat stroke would be a nice distraction from everything going on. No, no, that would only get in the way of the book work. Hopefully, I can knock more of it out today and finish it.
Heading to therapy so many ideas are racing through my head. I almost the tern for the therapy centre. I've not been able to focus. 2 days into the new month and already I've lost any thought control. It's been complete emotional chaos. So much has gone on. For for the past week I've had to keep that mask on, that beautiful, fake & shiny Danny. It's so goddamn exhausting. I'm smothered in more ways than one, desperately looking for a way to breathe.
I make my way into the familiar waiting area, clutching a giant mug of coffee, my bag falling off my shoulder. I check in with the receptionist and take my usual seat. I'm left typing like a well-behaving robot, when a young skinny woman slouches into the waiting area, two clings clinging off her. She'd be pretty if her face wasn't pressed into that "I want to speak to the manager" bitch face. I check the clock. Hermonie can't come free me from this piece of hell any faster? 4 minutes to go. It feels like an eternity. My ribs start to burn as the baby-doll voice of Melanie Martinez swirls around me. (I know, not someone you'd peg me to be a fan of; I just enjoy some of her work and the theatrics of her album CryBaby. Not that the entire album is good, just a few of the songs speak to me.)
The woman with the children is called in and I'm left sitting in the waiting room. What the fuck gives. I look at the clock. 10.15. She's usually a few minutes late. I continue with my work, keeping an eye on the clock. Now 10 minutes late. No word from the receptionist either. I'm sure they told her that I'd arrived for my session. 20 minutes after our scheduled session, I usually give her a five minute grace period I approach the reception window. "Is she-" "I'm sure she'll be here soon." What? WHAT?! THEY DIDN'T EVEN TELL ME THAT SHE WASN'T FUCKING HERE. I'm done with this shit. "Well, tell her when you see her I'm leaving I don't have time to sit around like this. I have shit to do."
Rage boiled through my veins. I saw her coming in as I was leaving the centre. I could have left it alone, but I decided to call her out on her bullshit. "I'm fucking leaving." "What? We've not had our session." "I've been here for ages, you're 15 minutes late. I don't have time to sit and wait around for you." (There's only one person I'd ever sit around and wait for and he bloody well knows it, the cockstain.) "My session was at 10.15, I've been here since 10 and I'm not going to wait any longer. I have things that I have to do." "Come in and we'll find a spot for you." TRY AND FIND A FUCKING SPOT FOR ME? This completely upsets the applecart and my apples fall into the river. "I come here to help you because I need your help. I'm not going to wait while you waste time with some neurotic football mum who complains to you that she isn't being fucked right!" She looks as if I've slapped her across the face. "I don't have any clients like that." That's fucking rich. After that remark, I wanted to slap her across the face, but I gritted my teeth. "Seriously, I'm not waiting around, I've done enough fucking waiting around here." She gives me my new appointment and I leave the building wondering what the fuck I'm really doing here.
You know what? Fuck being polite, I was going to take a different tone with this blog, but seriously fuck that. This is just another stain on the unprofessionalism of those who work in the mental health field. "I can't bump somebody." But it's okay for me to be fucking left waiting like an asshole because you forgot about me? Confused times, wasted my time even though I've told you how things have been for me? This shit doesn't sit well with me. I don't think she takes me seriously and honestly, I don't want to talk to her anymore. We'll see how the next session goes. I'm sick of being treated like I don't matter and everyond fluffing me off, espeically the people who are being paid to help me.
The woman with the children is called in and I'm left sitting in the waiting room. What the fuck gives. I look at the clock. 10.15. She's usually a few minutes late. I continue with my work, keeping an eye on the clock. Now 10 minutes late. No word from the receptionist either. I'm sure they told her that I'd arrived for my session. 20 minutes after our scheduled session, I usually give her a five minute grace period I approach the reception window. "Is she-" "I'm sure she'll be here soon." What? WHAT?! THEY DIDN'T EVEN TELL ME THAT SHE WASN'T FUCKING HERE. I'm done with this shit. "Well, tell her when you see her I'm leaving I don't have time to sit around like this. I have shit to do."
Rage boiled through my veins. I saw her coming in as I was leaving the centre. I could have left it alone, but I decided to call her out on her bullshit. "I'm fucking leaving." "What? We've not had our session." "I've been here for ages, you're 15 minutes late. I don't have time to sit and wait around for you." (There's only one person I'd ever sit around and wait for and he bloody well knows it, the cockstain.) "My session was at 10.15, I've been here since 10 and I'm not going to wait any longer. I have things that I have to do." "Come in and we'll find a spot for you." TRY AND FIND A FUCKING SPOT FOR ME? This completely upsets the applecart and my apples fall into the river. "I come here to help you because I need your help. I'm not going to wait while you waste time with some neurotic football mum who complains to you that she isn't being fucked right!" She looks as if I've slapped her across the face. "I don't have any clients like that." That's fucking rich. After that remark, I wanted to slap her across the face, but I gritted my teeth. "Seriously, I'm not waiting around, I've done enough fucking waiting around here." She gives me my new appointment and I leave the building wondering what the fuck I'm really doing here.
You know what? Fuck being polite, I was going to take a different tone with this blog, but seriously fuck that. This is just another stain on the unprofessionalism of those who work in the mental health field. "I can't bump somebody." But it's okay for me to be fucking left waiting like an asshole because you forgot about me? Confused times, wasted my time even though I've told you how things have been for me? This shit doesn't sit well with me. I don't think she takes me seriously and honestly, I don't want to talk to her anymore. We'll see how the next session goes. I'm sick of being treated like I don't matter and everyond fluffing me off, espeically the people who are being paid to help me.
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