Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News

I finally saw a psychiatrist/therapist today.

Insecure, obsessive, compulsive, depressed, resentful were all words that she threw around, summing me in words.

I felt no connection with those words.

There was no, Aha! Now I get it! moment. There was just my emptiness filling with frustration.

Who is she to define me? I paid $50 for someone to tell me I'm broken.

I'm broken.

I already knew that. She told me that I could be fixed.

Do you have a hot glue gun? Elmo's paste would work just fine, too.

Something to adhere the pieces together, my pieces together. Anything.

Her feigned interest disgusted me. She doesn't care. She cares about my health insurance and how much I pay her. She cares about her $100/hr rate and how happy she is that she didn't quit pre-med after organic chemistry kicked her ass.

Me? Psh. Dust in the wind, money spilling, another sob story particle of dust, leaving nothing behind to prove it ever existed.

She asked about my childhood.

Awful.

She asked about my teen years.

Horrible.

She asked how I've grown.

I told her to look at me. No, really look at me.

That should answer your question.