Yesterday, when I saw S.B. and she asked me how I was doing, this is the image that bounced into my head. I think I'm going to make a 'real' pic out of this little sketch...
I'm getting a bit tired of seeing her twice a week, to be honest. Okay, okay - I understand the therapeutic actions resulting from talking through the pain you're feeling, but - do we really need to talk so fucking much about anything at all? I think about my evil shit all the time, so having to think about it out loud twice a week doesn't seem to be the right thing to do for me. Some people might respond to, even like, vomiting out all the bad juices, and it cleanses them. For me, it's only puts them into another set of ears who can't, honestly, know how it feels. Yes, they can empathize. Yes, they can offer suggestions (all of which I'm familiar with). While it might help if I had something dark to confess ("I've been meaning to tell you, Steph, that most of my problems stem from my overwhelming and undeniable urge to peel corpses and make lederhosen from their skins..."), but to continually dwell on the same shit, over and over, doesn't seem to do anything but stir the pot, agitate the evil sewage...
Yesterday, she just happened (yeah...) to have her lunch ready when I arrived, and suggested we share it while we talked. It was a nice gesture, but I knew where she was going. "I'm not losing weight because I can't afford food, Steph. I'm losing weight because I just don't feel like eating. It all tastes like wet newspaper..." To make her happy, I had a cup of tea and a slice of canteloupe...
I appreciate the gesture, though. In her mind, she was helping, and that's enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Spew...