Meeting #1 with the New Bartender

The Borg Queen (Yeah Brother)
And two-of-three (Yeah Brother)
Are swarming through the galaxy infesting me

Salt-sucking fiend (Yeah Brother)
From M-1 1 3 (Yeah Brother)
Just sucked every ounce of life right out of me

Yeah I’ll ignite (Yeah Brother)
My Corbomite (Yeah Brother)
And kill you ‘cause the left half of your face is white

I got a tractor beam (Yeah Brother)
Doomsday machine (Yeah Brother)
The world’s gonna end if we don’t hear a whale scream

    — Warp 11, “Yeah Brother 3.0”

Yes, I call my psychologist the bartender. You talk to him. (The psychiatrist is the candy man, because he gives you the good drugs.)

So. First meeting. It went as well as could be expected. Which is… somewhere between “he got the information he needed to start with” and “now I’m feeling somewhat suicidal because I just relived in flash mode 20+ years of horrible physical and emotional abuse, with stalking and betrayal and all kinds of bad, the losing everything and fleeing, and even worse that I don’t blog about here, because those incidents are somewhere between night terrors and, you know, possibly Black Goat of the Wood type stuff.”

Good first appointment, in other words.

Have to hang on until the next appointment. But my brain is now in little pieces, and mostly I want to go sit in a corner and whimper until the shadows go away.

And tomorrow I have to go do stuff. Today I have to go do stuff. And I would be doing stuff, except the medication I need to feel even somewhat better has been rejected for refill due to people calling the wrong phone numbers and misunderstandings, and now gods know when I’m going to get more of it.

So, you know. Mood to do stuff has plummeted. As has a lot of other things that I was juggling, if somewhat desperately, right up until now.

I’ll survive. I’ve always done so, even during the times when I felt that the best use for my life would be to stick my head in a gas oven, and that was after the death threats from my parents and before I had an adequate support network (even one that has atrophied away as much as my current one has).

I just am fucking hard to kill, even by me.

Sometimes, though, it’s a razor edge between me and eternity.