And yet, here we are.

Misery continues to stalk me. It has lost a lot of steam lately but it is still there, waiting to pounce me in an undistracted moment and make me hate myself and the world and life all over again.

But I don’t really care.

That’s the thing about this. Even when I feel really depressed, like I’ve bene feeling lately, I don’t take it that seriously. I know it’s just chemical garbage that has accumulated in my brain due to a very large backlog of unexpressed emotions building up in my mind and turning toxic.

I am not what I feel. I know this now. And no matter what bullshit is going on in my head, the world has not changed. Nor have I. Nor has the actual truth of my life.

So to me, it’s like any other illness. It sucks when you have it You’re glad when it passes. You do what you can to make it pass as quickly and painlessly as possible.

But it doesn’t change who you are.

And yet, I still have some of that chemical bullshit to vent. And to vent it, I kind of have to pretend like I am still the far sicker version of myself and let out all those negative feelings about myself and my life in order to drain my inner swamp.

And the thing is, I don’t feel like it any more.

That super negative post was sort of a accident. I knew I planned to vent some of my darker emotions – hence the title of the blog post – but I had no idea it would snowball into such a big and blatant barfing out of all that bad stuff.

When I embarked upon the blogging, I had only the dimmest idea of what I was getting myself into. I thought that, at most, I would go on some angry, cynical, bitter tirade against the many injustices that have plagued my life.

But nope. I went kersploot instead. All those thoughts I combat and suppress came pouring out of me in a catastrophic cascade of biblical proportions.

I can’t seem to stop alliterating lately. It’s the sort of spontaneous, uncontrolled ordering that forms in a hyper-creative mind that has become oversaturated with potential.

It’s the kind of thing that happens with schizophrenics. The sort of “something out of nothing” process that is the basis of creativity go out of control with schizophenics and produces far more creativity than a normal conscious mind can handle.

And that’s where the voices and other hallucinations come from.

Luckily,. it’s not that bad with me. But I have felt a rise in synchronicity in my life as things seem to spontaneously align themselves, and assuming I am not the Chosen One of some ancient religion. the boring but probable cause of that is that my mind is finding a way to attach meaning to meaningless patterns.

Under this theoretical framework, the idea is that the seeming rise in coincidence is merely a by-product of a mind that has become super-sensitive to patterns.

Yeah, like that. Thankis, Al!

Anyway, enough of that academic bullshit. I can play professor for as long as I like. It comes to me naturally. That’s why it’s so easy for my therapist to get drawn in by it.

I am still pissed off about him fucking off somewhere for two weeks, leaving me sans therapy for three weeks.

It’s a calendar thing. Trust me, it makes sense.

Have I complained about this yet? No? Then it’s about time.

Yes, my therapist is taking two weeks off. Isn’t that fun? In our last therapy session, I asked him why he doesn’t get a locum (substitute doctor) like any other specialist.

And he seemed shocked and confused at the very thought. He told me there’s no such thing as a locum in psychiatry. And he didn’t even see that as a problem.

But I ask you : what other form of medical therapy would leave a patient high and dry for three whole weeks just because someone went on vacation?

“Oh, your oncologist went on vacation. You’ll just have to start your chemo over again when she gets back. ”

“You’ve got a tiny surgical screw bouncing around in your bloodstream due to surgical error? Better hope it doesn’t kill you before the surgeon gets back from the Bahamas.”

“Sure, your child could die horribly without the second course of antibiotics, but it will be worth it if Doctor Halford comes back with a really nice tan. ”

See what I mean? I’m a very ill man My weekly therapy sessions are the tiny drops of medicine that keep me from being totally crazy.

But hey, finding someone to fill in for you would be such a hassle and nothing bad will happen to you (because it’s “normal to do this” and it’s way easier to just skip the due diligence literally all other fields of medicine so that psychiatists can go on vacation without having to worry about their patients at all.

And after all, what’s a patient’s suffering compared to a therapist’s convenience?

He’s taken a week off before. And I have never liked it but I had no choice but to learn to cope with it.

But this time it’s two weeks and I severely resent it. And I am sick and tired of being the person who takes the pain in order to accomodate other people’s plans in order to be “reasonable” and “understanding”.

From now on, I am no longer easy to neglect and ignore. If I am getting stepped on, I’m going to squeal, and if my squeal isn’t listening to, I will bite. HARD.

So when my therapist comes back, I am going to tell him just what I think of this neglect.

And he will say something about how therapists are people too and need time off like everybody else does.

And I will reply that I am not saying you can’t ever go on vacation, I am just saying that you have a responsibility to make sure your patients are okay while you are gone, instead of just shrugging it off.

That’s how responsibility works.

And you, Doctor Costin, have a responsibility to a lot of very sick people.

And if you ever want psychiatry to be treated as a valid form of medicine, you will act like it is.

Meanwhile, have fun while I suffer.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.