Therapy

Well, ya see Doc, it’s like this: For roughly four nonconsecutive weeks out of the whole year, I feel like a million fucking dollars.

I’m on top of the world, Doc, tweaking on the greatest happiness that has ever been experienced by any human, alive or dead, since we came up with the idea. And believe me, Doc, it’s great.

I feel like I could wrestle a goddamn mountain during these weeks. I probably wouldn’t win, but I’d come close.

The world is a beautiful place when I get like this, wherever I go is exactly where I want to be, whomever I’m with is exactly with whom I want to be, and I just want to drink from life’s ample cup until the fucker is empty.

You understand what I’m saying, Doc? Have you ever known any feeling like this?

I imagine it’s pretty rare, because whenever I feel this happiness, this ecstasy, this joy, people look at me like I’m a goddamn maniac or something.

To think, you’d have to be insane to be this happy, that says something, Doc, about our society.

Well, anyway, that’s just four nonconsecutive weeks out of the year, one disconnected month out of 12.

Lemme tell you about the rest of the year: If I’m at the top of the world for those four weeks, then I’m in a stinking cesspool at the very bottom during the other 48.

I don’t want to eat, though I’m hungry. I don’t want to sleep, though I’m tired.

I can’t find one scrap of love in my heart for basically anything, Doc, and it’s wretched. It’s wretched. I’m swinging on a threadbare rope between apathy and anxiety.

Suddenly, the world doesn’t seem so beautiful. It seems horrible, and awful, and dreary, and hostile, and I don’t want to be a part of it, I simply cannot be a part of it!

Imagine a shade of gray so deep, so intense, that when you look upon it you tremble in fear, it’s that powerful! It envelops you. It absorbs you. It eats its way through your skin and pours into your bones until it’s all you know anymore. That’s how I feel.

I think about death a lot too, Doc, how nice it would be to cease existing. No more feelings, no more world, just the everlasting peace of nothingness.

Which isn’t to say I’m suicidal necessarily, because let’s face it, even that requires some motivation, and as I may have said before, I have absolutely none.

I also have zero self-esteem, everything I do is utter shit, and I think, Doc, how little I’ve accomplished in my life.

I haven’t even managed to escape the oppressive grasp of my hometown, though not for lack of trying.

I had such big dreams when I was younger, such big and towering dreams, and now those towers have slowly fallen into ruin, and like a fallen monarch, I can do nothing but gaze without hope at the remains of my once glorious kingdom.

When did life become so… I dunno, exhausting?

I used to have reasons for waking up in the morning. I imagined I was destined for such great things! I was going to get out, I was going to make something of myself, I was going to be somebody that my family and friends would envy!

I was creating a beautiful future, Doc, but all that creating, all that building, all that planning has landed me right here in your office.

Somewhere along the way, I fucked up big.

And I feel this way for months at a time, can you imagine? Literal months!

It gets worse the older I get, Doc, and I’m afraid that one of these days this feeling is going to be the only thing that I feel.

-r. miller

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