If not this, then coin collecting.

He was sitting across from me Dangerous Minds style minus the backwards chair. I knew exactly what was going to come out of his mouth, but I glared defiantly at him daring him to – secretly desperate for – a different declaration.

“You expect the worse out of everyone and everything and I don’t know why you do this.”

Likewise, he knew this would elicit a dramatic eye roll coupled with crossed arms.

Dr. B and I have a relationship that has the sort of intimacy that comes when one person is sortakindacrazy and the other prescribes them medication. We have an understanding of sorts. He knows I know better and I know that he knows that I know better. He is this short, energetic man and I don’t know much else about him because I shouldn’t: he’s my psychiatrist. When I first met him, I expected a Fraiseresque experience, except I wasn’t calling in and I wouldn’t dare lay on the couch (the germs…from other people and all) but instead I got straight talk and a diagnosis +3. He laughs at me because sometimes he doesn’t know what else to do.

More importantly for me, he knows that in most situations I am right. The problem, he says, is that life doesn’t respect right and fairness. My indignation is pointless.

“Get a hobby. Something. Do you write?”

“No. It’s stupid and have nothing to say.”

“You need an outlet. Something that keeps you going. Needlepoint, canoeing, coin collecting. Something. Think about. Keep me posted.”

It was eerily empty in the hallway where he left me. It seemed as if the physical space was reflecting how I felt. Empty, but functioning.

So this is me keeping going. I will inevitably give up on this. You can place bets on how many posts or months before I let this wither away, forgetting my password. For now….for now it’s an attempt. When you have the mental state that I do, attempt is in itself a victory.

Alas, my first post.


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