This message is brought to you by psychosis. And also insomnia.

So.

I'm going to see a new shrink today, mostly because I saw a new phychiatrist last month (the kind with pills) and he read through all of my past therapy files and summarized their contents out loud to me - all of the things in my past that have been done to me, all of the things that I've done, all the fucked up stuff that I'm afraid most people have dealt with, but apparently they have a gene that I'm lacking, the one that instructs them to move the fuck on already, it's in the past, something I've never been able to do - and after reading the notes, the psychiatrist looked up at me and said something like, "No wonder you're depressed."

And all I can say to that is HA. HA HA HA HA HA. Yeah, no shit.

So the main problem I've encountered with talk therapy is that my previous shrinks take a lot of notes and nod their heads a lot, occasionally asking questions, but mostly just waiting for me to blurt shit out. Anyone who's "met" me knows that BLURTING IS NOT A PROBLEM FOR ME. So while perhaps getting patients to discuss their sexual abuse or their history of self-mutilation is a major break through, for me it's like DUDE. Save us both some time and just read my fucking blog.

What I need is a shrink who will grab me by the throat and shove my face into the sentence I just said, hold me underwater and scream at me, "LOOK AT THAT SHIT. WHY DID YOU DO THAT. That's what you need to figure out, dumbass."

I need someone to push me.

Someone to call me out.

Someone to actually HELP me.

So this morning, I have the very typical (for me) Patient's Remorse, the feeling I get when I'm at the point of no-return before a therapy appointment, when it's too late to cancel without paying for the session anyway, and I'm all, "But see? I'm not even that depressed today. This is like going to get a manicure after pulling all of my nails out with pliers. KIND OF REDUNDANT."

The psychiatrist I saw last month upped my dose of the anti-anxiety medication I've been taking for two years with fairly remarkable success, and it seems the slightly higher dose is helping because now I feel like I'm normal again.

Except.

Except this feeling is something I've experienced before a bajillion times, and what it means is that I'll be peachy-golden-sunshine-and-unicorn-farts for about two weeks and then all of a sudden, I'll feel like the entire world is spinning, the color will drain out of everything and I'll watch it slip away like shit down the toilet, and I'll be like, "Fuck. Shoulda kept that therapy appointment." But then, I'll be too depressed to pick up the damn phone, so I'll suffer through it until I'm feeling better.

Lather, rinse, re-fucking-peat.

Defeats the whole purpose of therapy, really. I'm tired of using crutches. I want to fix the fucking break inside of me. Forever.

It's exhausting, always trying to decide if living is worth the trouble.

So.