My Corner Cloud Nine

“You’re painting yourself into a corner.”                                    “Perhaps so- as unfortunately I’ve already thoroughly contemplated all of these options- I just don’t care.”                                           “You’re only telling yourself that you don’t care.”

         Its been three years since I decided to take another stab at cognitive therapy and to put more mechanical effort into it. Three years and she’s the only psychologist who hasn’t fired me for whatever reason. Though after enough years of therapy I sometimes feel like I can therapize myself with all the calculated anti-statements (my term for a hard, societally fundamental truth that I would be fulfilling- were it not for thoughts and those pesky emotions), devil’s advocation, adages, and seemingly mathematical postulations from the DSM. I’ve got a bad habit at this point of cutting off counselors midsentence, because I already know that I’m conventionally wrong- or I wouldn’t be still sitting in that room. Of course I don’t really talk anywhere else either. At this point I think that’s the only reason I still go. 
         Don’t get me wrong- she’s a brilliant psychologist and I have a particular fondness for my therapist- rather conscious of her wellbeing and how frustrated she must be with me on these levels. I mean, we’ve spent hundreds of hours talking and for the most part I’ve told her more about myself than I have anyone- being from the time my entire life and psyche imploded and I became less empty headed- and consequently fucked up from it all. Now as lame as it may sound- or at least as it does to me- I always get sad and miss whomever it was that I was paying to listen to me. That and this is the last time I ever plan on trying any therapy. I often (only half) jokingly say that I’ve tried voodoo already and I think I would have to become much more commited with the occult rituals and pledge my soul to Satan to try something new to feel better.
            I’m not quitting- for a number of reasons its beneficial and expected for all appearances that a dysfunctional individual be in therapy. She hasn’t quit on me, which is great. Yet due to the new and unfamiliar place I find myself in the last couple months (after the vain optimism dissipated for lack of efficacy), I think we both could agree that it’s become redundant and now really is my responsibility to do something tangible with all this anti-statement knowledge.

Talk to people.

Have relationships.

Go back to school to get a shiny degree to hang my hat on.

Maintain a job so I can get money to support myself. 

Ultimately, pretend to give a shit. 

So for the first time in those years, I’m cutting back to only once a week or two. I’m too shut down and numb to have anything to say to anyone. 
          It’s never been quite this difficult in my recollection to pretend to give a fuck- about any of those things. Yet perhaps I’ve never understood life in this world so clearly as I recently have surrendered to know. I don’t know what to do because I’ve never been in this position in my life. There’s usually been something going on in some way that at least vaguely resembled some life left in me for desire or pursuits- relationships, athletics, music, writing, vocalized expression. Hell, even destruction and self- medication is something. 
          Yet I’ve been remarkably tearless. Something recently snapped inside of me and there’s really no better way to explain it than as being dead. I previously spent a rather dramatic week by myself thinking, weeping, screaming, mourning, praying, and plotting- and I decided I really don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to fight anymore. 

Fight bad chemicals or useless diagnoses. 

Fight these same daily battles that have intensified for a decade. 

Fight with myself.
       It’s no secret that I’ve been loosely suicidal for the past year, though 4 months ago worsening to the point of being hospitalized for a month and a half. Yet this place I’m in now is so unfamiliar because I’ve contemplated suicide but never with such a stoic, unwavering conviction and decision. Foolishly- as though my mind is already made up- that I’ll find a way to die, though having yet to conjure the courage or cunning enough plan to ensure that I don’t end up worse off for failure. 
        I’m trying to distract my mind from the thoughts and this new reality within myself. I’m trying to just fucking do the things expected of me, and leave the emotional and spiritual parts of myself in a trash can each day- Along with all my desires, aspirations, and passions. There’s not much else left. Yet a part of myself whispers that soon none of it will matter anyways. I’m trying to just nod my head and find a way to make things look done, even though I’ve essentially already abandoned the scene entirely and divorced myself of all connection to life. I don’t know how many people can see, feel it, or sense when my eyes are lying. 

Truly- though it may sound dramatic- 

I believe that my story is over. 
Maybe I’ve painted myself into a corner. Maybe my reasoning is wrong. Maybe I don’t care. 


“You’re right. It is what it is.”

I smiled and walked out of the office. 


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