Too far gone.

Haven't written in awhile. Not here, not in e-mails. I'm blank inside. I know what it is; I've gotten to thinking about things best left buried and forgotten but silly one that I am, I forget at times, and the pondering begins, leaving me functionally dissociative.

And then I wonder: am I that way because things happened as they did, or am I that way because it's what they predicted? I don't want to give into it if I don't have to. But then, I've been told that not accepting it just fucks everything up. They told me that not accepting that aspect of myself is like not accepting a diagnosis of cancer: whether or not I want to admit it's there, it's going to eat me from the inside-out if I don't get treatment.

But for fuck's sake, how do you get treatment for that kind of thing? They tell me the answer is to remain inpatient until it's worked out. "How long?", I asked. "We're thinking about 8-10 months", they replied. Fuck that. Not an option.

I hate going there, with their big fluffy chairs and brightly-coloured walls, peluches in the corner, broken and half-eaten crayons strewn about the table. I hate the smile that exudes false compassion, I hate the smile-and-nod combo that tries desperately to mask what they're really thinking. I hate when they ask questions, I hate when they want me to talk...I hate it because they all say that it's okay, they've heard it all before, if I'd just talk then I'd see it's not so bad. Then I take that ridiculous leap of faith and tell them my starter story, the one so vague, and yet it allows me to gauge their reaction.

I swear: 9 times out of 10, their faces scream out to me "What the fuck?" and that's the end of it. I bullshit through the rest of it, and stop going back. Sometimes I'll get one who wants to add me to their illustrious Book of Accomplishments and keep calling after me; enough cancelled appointments or no-shows can fix that easily.

So yes, there you have it. It's why I don't go back. I know about a half dozen people trying their damnedest to coerce me into seeing this "really good" one they know. They're all "really good" ones. They're all well-read and have had papers published and are directors of their respective institutions. And they all want to help, they claim I'm not as lost as I think I am, they assure me that once I unlock that door and get down to the Real Shit I've been hiding, I'll feel this massive weight lifted off my shoulders and life will be all beer and Skittles. And they're wrong, every single one of them. Sometimes I want to really say it, all of it, just to see what would happen.

Basically I can't figure out if I just don't want the help or I think I'm too far gone for it.