I’m heartsick. Brain-sick. Sick, sick, sick and tired.
I’m sick of liars, sick of fakes. Sick of inconsiderate and ingenuous people that say one thing and do another; I’m sick of being told no. I’m sick of being who I am, sick of being impatient, sick of being me. I’m sick of everything that’s shoved up my bum by people who get joy out of causing pain for those who don’t deserve it.
And I mean that in the nicest way.
Aren’t you sick of it, too? I can’t be the only one that feels disgusted by immoral people that talk out of both sides of their mouths.
Fine. Things don’t go well, hey, I’m allowed to bitch. I’m allowed to be a little angry when people lead me on about employment opportunities, being nice to me, being interested in me when they’re being totally bogus. I think being angry is just fine as long as you know that it’s a transitory emotion like all the others.
Oh, I might bitch about those idiots again but it won’t be such an immediate or such a vile and guttural feeling; this whole emotional mess mellows into a rank disgust, a kind of wrinkled-nose sort of smell, if you know what I mean. It’s like having a beautiful bouquet of roses in your arms and then being forced to walk behind a disgusting garbage truck. It’s nauseating.
Look familiar? It sure does to me. But these guys are rank amateurs by comparison. When I get wound up about the indignities that I am subjected to in the course of life, the guys in this photo remind me that I have more to consider than just my temporary rage.
It seems I have good, long-term, psycho-neuro agitation to encourage.
Sometimes I don’t want healing. I don’t want good feelings, centered existence, happy outlook or positive reinforcement. I want a good old-fashioned straight-jacket sort of mad. I want to wear the kind of crazy, angry, smiling face that would make Jack Nicholson proud. I want to scream, and really loudly, too.
But no, that’s all wrong. I might feel that way at the moment but I’m not going to act out on those crazy, whacked out impulses. I’ve worked far too hard for far too long to drive someone’s BMW off the cliff into a ravine, no matter how tempting the idea. I’m not that kind of guy.
Except that sometimes I have an overwhelming desire to slap the living freakin’ daylights out of people that lie to me. But really, who doesn’t? I mean, think of the satisfaction. And the lawsuit.
I’ll call you about a meeting. I’ll be in touch. You represent everything we’re looking for in an employee. You’re a really nice guy, really. You’re so talented! You’re great. And no, of course you’re not fat, don’t be silly!
If I wanted someone to lie to me, people, I’d do it to myself. I used to be very good at it. But I’m not going to let you people get me down. You don’t fool me, no matter how much I want to believe what you say. No matter how many times I fall for it, either. I guess I’m just a great big chump. Gullible, taken for a mark, you-can-tell-him-anything-and-he’ll-believe-it kind of guy.
I disgust myself. But enough about me.
I would like — no, I demand — to go on some sort of a vacation. Somewhere quiet, peaceful, restorative. A place where the staff tend to your every whim, where they make you feel really good.
And I think I know just the place. Welcome to The Shining’s beautiful Overlook Hotel.
Lots of the rich and famous have stayed in this place, I’ve heard. So why not me? Spend a month or so getting my ducks in a row, letting things calm down in my life. Maybe have a Thorazine Martini at the Psycho Bar with Lloyd the Bartender. Or perhaps have a quick little snack and a Seroquel Shake at the Shock Shack, or even play Pill Bingo in the casino.
Very chic, very retro.
Maybe meet up with everyone at the 1921 New Year’s Ball. After all, I have an invitation.
Oh, fine. I know it’s nothing to joke about. But if I don’t have a good laugh I’m going to have a good cry, and I’d rather not have one of those just now. Forgive my little sarcasm. What’s wrong with a little rude release, a good tease now and then?
Well, it’s wrong to make fun of people that need places like this to get grounded and come back down to earth, to a place where reality is a little more coherent. I know that. And I would never belittle any person or institution that needs or provides psychiatric help.
But I simply can’t resist being bad sometimes and besides, a Thorazine Martini sounds pretty good right about now. But I don’t drink, haven’t for a long, long time. And I don’t take drugs except the huge pile of them I have to take each day. I don’t have much fun doing that, either.
When people lie to me, when they treat me poorly and without regard for my feelings, it’s no surprise that I get mad. But I can’t stay mad these days, no matter how much effort I put into it.
That’s progress for you. Apparently I’ve paid far too much attention in therapy to spend all day ranting about people who don’t live up to my ridiculous expectations of them. What the hell has my therapist done to me?