You ever listen to Erykah Badu’s “Danger” and just find yourself rocking out like you’re a bad ass ready to “flush the Yayo” before the cops bust through your door and nip your gangsta’ ass in the bud?
On Tuesday I am seeing this psychiatrist for the second time. On Wednesday I am seeing my psychologist. On Friday I’m working a shift.
It’s amazing how different being at work can make me feel. Although my anxiety rises during check in’s and check out’s and interviews and I try to avoid them because of it, being among familiar faces really creates a safe space for me. The guests I’ve all got a great rapport with. My social struggles are there when speaking, but the anxiety is generally erased.
I’ve thought about confessing, not only to this new psychiatrist who I’m paying a pretty penny, but also to my coworkers, perhaps my supervisor during supervisions this week . . . or next week . . . or whenever we can get to it. Supervisions are basically a period in time where I meet with my supervisor and we talk about how I’m doing work wise and mental health wise.
What in the world could I possibly have to confess? Am I a malingerer? Am I a murderer? Did I #FuckTrumpInTheAss? Well, we all know the latter is out of the question, I don’t want an STD. I also couldn’t be within ten feet of the moron without the homicidal thoughts racing.
I would like to confess my deepest, darkest secret, of which I’ve probably revealed on here many times in terms of thought process. All the things I share on here are nothing about what I share to the others.
I think it’s gotten to the point where school is so effected, where my daily life is so affected, that I don’t have time to mess around anymore.
I also believe this is a problem for many. We wait until we’re at a breaking point, or until we break, to reach out. Not necessarily to a professional, but to anyone. It’s like we deny ourselves the right to struggle and not feel lesser for it. Obviously there are a lot of environmental factors that play into that mindset, and perhaps even some personal beliefs or mindsets and, understandably, some anxiety.
Being around people so willing to be open, and not so willing to be open, has held a large mirror in front of my eyes.
I’ll speak more on this later. Or I’ll speak more later, in general. To be honest, I just can’t fucking think. I really can’t. It’s like pushing words the size of a horse’s cock through a sieve the size of an ant’s urethra. It’s like shoving a kid against a brick wall and continually pushing their face into the bricks, shouting at them go forward and stop being a nutty little bastard. It’s like that itch on the middle of your back you can’t reach. It’s like someone cut one of your neurons so all the electrical signals that make up thoughts fall off the axon like a derailed train.
I’m sorry to the sensitive viewers. I’m really dissatisfied with my brain at this moment. Good-fucking-night.