The "catch-22" of having a shrink "help" you is that you can't tell them the real truth. I mean like the TRUTH. There's all sorts of alarms, and red buttons pushed if you're stupid enough to do that. Like the time I told one of them guys I did in fact have self-destructive feelings,...they always ask.
I ended up in a nut house for that.
In fact the chief head shrinker there said what a dummy I was to admit shit like that. "Never tell anyone in the system that." His exact words. If ya do you end up in a one size fits all system to "help" you "adjust."
Never again.
However I can tell the truth here since no one reads this. Well some friends sometimes. Also the usual random folks that always drift by. Come to think of it the most hits I ever got was for a Queer blog I used to do.
Of course it was eventually nuked by the provider,...they do that. However I got 800,000 unique hits on that sweet heart. Folks from both the Palestinian Authority, 'and' Israel was tuned in. Though I doubt it was my swell prose that filled the house.
It "might' have had something to do with the "Objects de Art" I so totally, and gleefully littered it with. Hey ya wants an audience ya has to gives 'em what they wants.
So here's my Obit.
"Sidney Smith aged 67 writer artist, and former broadcaster was found deceased in his apartment Wednesday evening. The police suspect it may have been a suicide. No evidence of foul play was found."
"Mr. Smith is survived by a sister. In keeping with his written wises his sister said there would be no funeral or memorial of any kind. She also said the remains of her brother Mr. Smith would be cremated, and the ashes discharged at an undisclosed location."
"Sidney Smith was once a radio host whose ironic humor, and unusual points of view were enjoyed by some."
Well there ya go. That's all she wrote. In fact most proles would be lucky as shit to get even 'this' much. So like Walt Whitman who wrote his own reviews I hacked out my own Obit.
'...and who better?
( No don't go busting my door down to see if I'm dead. I ain't offing myself this week. Sure I could kick the bucket from a ton of other shit any time. However I'm just posting the scary disturbing to others crap depressives always think about is all.)
...gimme a break.
...gimme a break.
3 comments:
Never trust those shrink bastards.
At least the priests know how to keep their mouths shut...
Ok, a story for you.
When I was 7 years old I was tutored because of my sub-par spelling abilities. Due to the rules of the school it was required that if a student was to receive supplemental instruction that they be interviewed by the school psychologist. So amongst the questions I was asked was "how many brothers or sisters do you have?" Well that was a ticklish question. One of my sisters is and was then dead. Ordinarily I would not have mentioned her existence. I had heard my Mother not mention her when people would ask her how many children did she have. And who could blame her? It would prompt the start of a conversation that could only be painful. So ordinarily I would do as Mom, not wanting to hear the expressions of sympathy for something that happened before I was born. But being a dutiful young scholar I told the dumb fuck interviewing me the truth.
He responded by writing a report where he expressed the opinion that I was obsessed with my dead sister. I answered his question and the man returned the favor by characterizing my response as evidence of psychological morbidity. Being a nosy boy when I happened upon the report siting on Mom's desk I read it, and I was glad that I did.
The next time I was interviewed they presented me with the standard Rorschach Test images, I responded by saying that the images looked like some one spilt ink on paper and folded it in half. I must have offered similarly motivated responses to the majority of the questions I was asked. I believe the shit head then wrote a report implying that I was a bit dull witted. My parents had the presence of mind to tell the school system that I no longer required anything in the way of extra "help."
As the saying goes, given enough time my parents could see through walls. My father once said to me, "Pat you're a smart-ass. I am too."
It's nice when your people understand you.
It is a great comfort.
"Doctors are no more to be trusted than lawyers or real estate agents." -J. G. Ballard, S.F. Eye, 1991
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