I went to the shrink yesterday. Pictures of turkeys and cornucopias and fall leaves were stuck all over the outside of her secretary's window. As I came in, I thought about how much I hate window stickies on secretaries' windows.
The shrink, Anne somebody, is a serious looking lady with chin length gray hair wearing loose clothing and pseudo-African jewlery. I told her that I've been depressed on and off for the past five years, and tried to describe the feeling when she asked me to. She asked for my "internal monolougue," but there is none. So I just described the physical feeling - emptyness, heaviness, hopelessness, lack of motivation to breath, to move, to shiver when it's cold. I told her that I am, and always have been, an insomniac, and that I get especially depressed, without fail, every spring. She seemed to think that all of this fit together rather well. Then she asked me a bunch of questions about my parents and whether I felt like I fit in. All of my answers were so normal and content-sounding that they made her frown - it's true. I have a perfect life. Why the hell should I be depressed?
We established what I established with that other lady that other time: That talking may or may not help, and that the kind of depression I'm describing is the kind that medications are almost always successful with. I told her that I didn't want to change my personality.
But if I don't want to change my personality, what do I need a shink for anyway? Why can't I just live with it? I've been living with it for as long as I can clearly remember. I'm happy sometimes. Why can't I just keep going?
We decided that I'm going again. I figure next time I'll make her job easy and jump right into my love/hate relationship with every human being on this planet, and especially the ones I'm close to. You know, the not liking to be touched or cared about. The constant feeling of being skeeved out by what I feel for people and what they feel for me. Especially my parents. And Molly. I don't think that's good. I think that's related to what she called my "isolation" as a child. It might also be related to the emptiness.
I think my mom is skeeved out by what might be going on in there. Or maybe just by the fact that I need it. She always asks about it. She wants me to talk to her. But most of the time, I just want her to go away...
I crashed when I got home. At first I thought I wanted to run away. Pack up, steal the car, head West. (Like becoming a slacker, it's an appealing thought that will never become a reality but which helps me survive.) But then I realized that there was nowhere to run to - I didn't want to be anywhere. I just didn't want to feel anymore. I hated emotions. They were animal. They were dirty. They skeeved me out. And there were so many of them, and I just wished they would stop. It was unbelievably painful. I begged my brain to let me fall asleep.
I think this is a manifestation of me hating shrinks. And pseudo-African jewlery. And window stickies.
When I woke up in the morning, I felt fine. I felt fine all day today. (Hence the rather cheerful previous entry.) But last night... God. That sucked. There was no way out of it - that was the worst part.
It's kind of ironic that going to the shrink is depressing, isn't it? Or maybe it's a conspiracy.
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