Wednesday, June 4, 2014

My Weekly Visit With My Shrink


Today I went to my weekly 30 minute visit with my shrink. She asked me some questions about my life and I told her nothing has changed since the last time I we spoke. She asked me if I have been able to sleep. I told her no. She asked me if I was taking the medication she prescribed. I said yes, which is a lie. I had the prescriptions filled but I have yet to actually take the drugs (I halfway believe my issues can be cured without medication). 

Somehow or the other we started talking about what I do at night when I'm not able to sleep. I told her I sit at my computer writing most nights or I lay in bed having conversations with my grandmother in my head. 

Well, that was the wrong damn thing to tell a shrink!

The woman started asking me a shitload of questions about the conversations I have in my head with my grandma. I answered them. I informed her that I think these conversations come courtsey of knowing exactly what my grandma would say to me if she were here. I also told her that I didn't have these conversations in my head with my grandmother prior to her death. This may just be my way of coping with her death. 

I told the shrink I am a writer and I have a vivid imagination. I told her I frequently have conversations in my head with the characters I create. They tell me their stories. I don't have any damn imaginary friends. I just have an active imagination....like most writers.

At that point, the woman tried to convince me that I'm having hallucinations. I'm looking at her like...

Bitch, I'm depressed not crazy. I'm not seeing any motherfucking ghosts!

At the end of my session she gave me a list of prescriptions for anti-psychotics.

This right here is why I avoided seeing a shrink for so long. As far as I can tell these bastards are nothing more than mental hustlers. They talk to you for 30 minutes while typing away into a computer. They then give you enough drugs to ensure that you're dazed the hell out until the next time you see them. The shit they try to cure with medication can probably be cured with some good pussy and weed!

I'm not taking any anti-psychotics. I'm not having any hallucinations, delusions, etc. This woman is probably trying to get me doped up and institutionalized in some maxmium security nuthouse in the backwoods of Georgia where she can continue to milk my insurance company for money.

I'm going to find myself a new doctor.
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