this must be how office people who work in a cubicle feel. to come each day to the same square box - to sit facing an artificial wall all day every day. to work and slave like a dog all day long to go home and collapse in exhaustion only to return to the same square box the next day and do it all over again. and again. and again. no wonder some go postal. i have that urge every day. or at least an urge to stand on the table and scream at the top of my lungs. WAKE UP MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!! hmph. i'd probably get lynched for breaking their concentration.

i was having lunch with a friend the other day (well, she was having lunch, i was having lettuce) when we somehow (!) got on the topic of my mental health. she's concerned. i don't seem very happy. of course i told her it was just the stress of finals, but she didn't quite buy it. i ended up telling her that, yeah, i have felt a bit down lately, but didn't know why (and i really don't. i mean, i know some things, but am definitely clueless for the most part) get this - she gave me a card for a shrink. not her shrink, mind you (she doesn't have one) but she had taken the time to go to the health center before our lunch and get a referral. so i guess she really is concerned. and that's kinda sweet. but i got that panicked feeling - the feeling i get when i feel like too much attention is being paid to me. i tried desperately to change the subject but she wouldn't let me. i finally said i had to get back to the library and literally fled.

it's so sweet that she cares, but i can't see a shrink. i have had the worst experiences in therapy. it started when i was 12 and confided to a trusted teacher that i was suicidal. of course she immediately called my parents and they sent me to a shrink - who, when i told her all the shit that was going down in my life didn't believe me. she told me that she thought i was lying, exaggerating to get attention. i told her that i desperately wanted to die and she didn't believe me at all. she told me that she didn't think i would have the guts to go through with it. so the fact that i ended up in the hospital getting my stomach pumped, what, that was just a coincidence?? that was therapy experience #1. Therapy experience #2 ended up with my "therapist" (and i am using this term very loosely) threatening to send me to a psych ward for being uncooperative if i didn't participate in his "sexual therapy." yeah. therapy experience #3 ended after one session when, after listening to me talk and cry and sob, she wrote a prescription and left. i will not take drugs. i refuse to take psych meds - i watched my mom for ten years go through vicious cycle after vicious cycle on the psych med merry go round and i will not subject myself to that. no way. so i swore after that absolutely no way in hell i would ever ever go to therapy. it works for some people, don't get me wrong. but at this point there is no way i could trust anyone enough to make it a useful experience.

so my dear friend, thank you for caring, but i am doing fine. just fucking FINE. and the card went in the trash.

ok that was a long and boring history. sorry y'all. must get back to the present and the mountains of studying on the agenda for today -

xx luxe

starving + bleeding