The past several months have been tumultuous. Getting girls, losing them, lots of big changes in my knowledge and I've learned some big things about life and so on. I've made some good progress in how I do things. Despite being suicidal 90% of the time, I'm having a good time in a way. It's interesting and occasionally exciting.
I started going to therapy 2-3 months ago and am learning a lot from it. He's a therapist, not a doctor, but before I found him, the first guy I tried was a psychiatrist and it went like this:
I went into the office and started to fill out the clipboard. Before I was halfway done, the psychiatrist came out, looking like a cross between Lurch and an undertaker, zero warmth, which made me feel like he thought all the people in the waiting room were psychos. He ushered me into his office and told me to finish the clipboard later, speaking gently in measured tones, avoiding any contractions such as "here's" or "I've," as if he had to be very careful about what he said and how he said it to avoid triggering my violent psychosis.
His office was the usual dark wood and leather you imagine for high-end shrinks, and he asked me a series of maybe 20 questions, and wrote down my responses. Why are you here? Why do you believe you're depressed? Etc.
When I'd answer, after a moment he'd interrupt by moving onto the next question. Oh-kayyyyy...
It took maybe 5 minutes tops, if that. When he was done he paused and said "I've diagnosed you as depressed and here is how I arrived at that diagnosis: "
He then proceeded to read his notes and repeated back to me what I had told him!
He then wrote me a prescription for an anti-depressant. He said it may affect my libido. Uh, hello, were you even listening? Ladies man here!
Anyway, I asked, "What about therapy?"
This fucking guy told me, "Let's hold off on that until we try the medication for a month and see how that works out," and began to usher me out. I saw his Lexus keys on the hardwood bookshelf next to the door.
In the waiting room he took the next patient and I resumed filling out the clipboard. After the exact interval of time that my sit-down with him took, he reappeared with the next patient, who had her prescription in hand, and she began completing her unfinished clipboard. Amazing! The guy is a total pill-pusher. Hold off on therapy, and just treat the symptom? What a piece of shit this guy is.
I was still tempted to come back, though, because this other chick in the waiting room was smoking hot.
~
the story ended so nicely like that, but here are the details for those who want them:
She looked like a total idiot, not making fun of her, just saying, she looked not very intelligent. She was very stylish, though, in her classy trash way, with a little white ivy cap on, a fluffy white jacket, bleach blonde hair, a very beautiful face with way took much makeup, hip-hop style jewelry, $300 jeans, expensive purse nails bracelets rings, too skinny (not a turn-on, ladies), fake tan, with big fake tits (again, not a turn-on, but it does mean good things if I'm looking for an easy girl with low self-esteem). She's the kind of girl who tells you she likes being called a slut and a whore, in bed.
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