So I saw my shrink today. To say that I feel emotionally and mentally exhausted would be a gross understatement. He kept asking questions to which I would lengthily answer and punctuate with, "I don't know." Every single question was answered, ultimately, with an "I don't know."
I don't know anything, apparently.
Unrealistic. That's what he called it.
Perhaps the scenarios that I concoct in my head to escape from all this mess is taking over, making me sadder than I should be. (Because oh, how reality pales in comparison to my dreams.)
Idealistic. That's what he called it.
The dragons-slash-windmills are taking over, I suppose. And worst of all, I have no Sancho Panza. This is all me, all in my head. Nothing is real.
"You have all of these ideas and opinions about so many intangible concepts," Doc said. Insert hashtag, youdontsay.
What is one to do, then?
I'm losing grasp of what is real, what could actually be, what should actually be. I'm being weighed down by expectations, obligations, unsaid arguments, and that huge elephant in the room that refuses to leave the room. Where are the damn poachers when you need them?
I'd like for my brain to stop. Enough with the Universe stopping so I can get off it, I just want my brain to stop.
I should write a phenomenology of happiness, if only because I can describe it by the negation thereof.
Because you were never there when I actually needed you. Because you kept providing what you thought I needed. Because whenever you were there, you were inaccessible. Because I was alone. Because I was lonely. Because you wouldn't even ask. Because you wouldn't have understood anyway. Because you fell in love with a concept. Because even now, I feel like everything is my fault.
(Maybe because everything is my fault.)
Because I'm freaking blogging about it and not arguing about it with you.
Made up stories, dragons, and Dulcinea. Oh my.
I don't know.
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