I’ve come to the end of my therapy sessions, today we worked on an action plan for trying to enable me to better recognise the signs of relapse in future. So I’m totally cured now and will never be insaniac again. Must. Kill. Random. Politicians. And. Fuck. Dustbins.
It’s been a ‘journey’. A word now placed in inverted commas because it has been raped and bent out of ordinary shape by wankstain television talent shows. As in ‘Shania has been on an amazing journey from chip shop worker to losing in the first round to returning to work in the chip shop because she’s been told she’s completely pointless by a fuck-haired impresario’.
My journey has been from a state of exhausting and seemingly inescapable agitation and anxiety to a state of not exhausting nor seemingly inescapable agitation and anxiety. Along the way I have had some insights, discovered a few new things and killed random politicians as well as finding out I like to fuck dustbins.
It can be a lottery with the actual therapist when you’re relying on state-run mental health support but I won this particular lottery and found myself working with someone who was intelligent and empathetic enough to gain my trust and who gave the impression of genuinely caring about whether I was able to improve my capacity for helping myself with this shit. I felt able to fully express myself in the sessions thus she was able to get a fuller picture of who I am and what the issues might be than if I had been holding back and not trusting the process.
Process, another word that needs reclaiming from reality TV and sports psychology.
Now that I’m cured I’ll probably be CEO of IBM by next Friday. And when I’m rich and living the high life I will send Mars Bars to everyone I like. And buy a lot of dustbins.