iaremyne.

#loveminusone

Diagnosis.

I went to see a psychiatrist today.

A shrink, a doctor of the mind, a second opinion.

 

I wanted to plead insanity. I wanted someone to tell me that it’s not biologically possible for me to be truly happy, that I can’t help all of this sadness.

Tell me that I am the byproduct of my circumstances and environment and it’s too late to fix it – the damage has been done and I will have to bear this cross for the rest of my life.

I wanted someone to certify that I am nuts, force me to take pills, bound me in a strait jacket, confine me to a room with padded walls.

 

Give my disease a name. Label me unfit. Give me the professional stamp of approval for my crazy.

 

But she said that I was normal.

So normal she thought she was part of a prank a practical joke, that Ashton Kutcher will burst out from my handbag.

So normal and self-aware that I could self-diagnose. That if I’d wanted to, I could pay myself RM200 an hour (pro-rated) to give myself psychiatric advice.

Turns out I was so painfully normal, it’s almost laughable.

 

I did not have a troubled childhood to blame. Never lived in poverty or known the kind of hunger that made you feel full with emptiness.

My parents were present and attentive, we’ve always had enough and a little more.

Never lived in the ‘hood, went to a private school, had too many cars in the driveway.

Don’t have a problem with drugs, no regrettable tattoos and all my piercings are predictable.

 

I was bullied as a kid but so was everybody else and they turned out okay.

Excel in most things that I dabble in (except for Maths and sports), was in between jobs a little but I chalk that up to my millennial sense of entitlement rather than the lack of opportunities.

Never had a drinking problem nor an issue with nutrition – only an unholy obsession with roast pork but I doubt that’s a marker for psychosis.

No thigh gap to speak of but most guys find me attractive enough and what I lack in décolletage, I make up for in personality.

 

Sometimes I try to conjure a faux sense of angst in my middle-class head by imagining my family dead.

But everyone is healthy and happy and we all get along just fine.

 

I went to see a psychiatrist today.

A shrink, a doctor of the mind, a second opinion.

Turns out I’m wasn’t crazy after all.

Not even a little, not even at all.

 

 

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Comments
  1. Eexin 15th April 2017 on 10:46 pm Reply

    I could utterly relate.

  2. Prinkz 17th April 2017 on 12:37 am Reply

    I went to one. She gave me meds..its useless. Meditation helps me way more. When u lose passion or interest in things that ibterest u before. When u cant find joy in anything then u need this psychologist and meditation. Otherwise, writing is a good enough outlet. Just know that we are the main person responsible for our own feelings and well being. Need to stop blaming and love ourselve enough to walk away or strengthen our mental to take whatever it is.

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