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Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Defense System

Today I go to the counselor for my first session. I am nervous. The prospect of letting a stranger see inside my mess, my miasma of unspoken shame, is frightening. I am sure that she has heard it all, seen it all, but I guess I have a nagging voice whispering they are going to think you are pathetic, you will be a joke, they will be repelled by your mind, your oozing, infected, pustule of a mind. But that is the disease, the demon, protecting itself, telling me lies, seeding me with doubt, holding the door shut. I keep yelling at it, I WANT TO FEEL BETTER, FUCK YOU, you evil insect, you disease, you will not be my rotting lover anymore, you have to GO. If only it was that easy...

What happens when the flashlight of my logic, my will, shines on its face is the reason it is so fucking insidious. It turns away, it hides, it finds the darkest corner, cowering, waiting for my strength to fade, for a cloud to obscure things just a little bit; and then it takes a different tack, the slimy fucker, finding a nearly insignificant thing, one wallet-sized picture from the hall, and it waits. It will hold that picture up when I'm shaving, when I'm driving, when I piss, sometime when I am distracted by little rituals, quiet times, and just let it hang there for a brief moment, barely perceived. And then it waits, smiling I am sure, waits for the picture to take hold, for the wire to be strung and the nail driven, for the frame to be painted, lurking, patient. When I open the door a tiny crack, just to see if it's safe, the evil bastard flicks the switch, the light paints the spot, bigger than life, bigger than I can focus on, and that's enough, no fucking thank you, just slam the door, just fucking STOP, no more, I can't do that, I can't...

And there it is. A tiny, seemingly insignificant thing, a subliminal flash, an echo of something, a thin needle prodding my mind, and I just slam the door.  Then it does its best work: I now start to think how pathetic, how useless you are, that little thing, that spec, and you hide, you are not a man, you are a coward. You subtle, devious, foul fucker. I hate this shit.

1 comment:

  1. Geoff.. I'm proud of you buddy, most guys aren't big enough to get the help it takes to bring them back from the depths of depression. This step WILL make it easier for you. If there's anything i can do, just let me know. Your a good guy, you don't ever need to buy yourself a white cowboy hat to prove it.

    Your old pal

    Gary

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