So I went to the pyschiatrist and the psychiatrist says..
So I went to the pyschiatrist and the psychiatrist says..that I'm suffering Major Depressive Disorder (of severe severity) and that I'm also suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (In the top 20% severity).
Well I had to laugh. In an instant I'd overtaken the bipolars and the agarophobics of the world and been given my own "mental" throne from which to declaim the world as cruel and forbidding. Brilliant.
This mean that I can now shoplift, drink excessively or frequent parlours given over to hideously obscure fetishes, without incurring any condemnation that might stick. Brilliant.
It also means that if I'm feeling really selfish or obstructive I can just pull out my psychiatrist's report and wave it in the faces of those who oppose me.
This really is my Willy Wonka golden ticket. Quite remarkable good fortune. I recommend it to you all. This place I'm in could quite possibly be the only sanctuary left for the dilletante and the permanently immature. Nobody expects the psychologically damaged to hit this month's sales targets, I promise.
You don't have be mad to avoid work and spend your life indulging every last febrile whim that strikes you, but it helps.
The only problem being of course is that I'm deeply affected by the contents of that report, to the extent that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. I had an inkling that something wasn't right when I noticed that I'd spent the last year playing games on a computer and talking to myself for an hour every night in the kitchen, usually about three am.
There had been other clues too, that this report was getting close to the mark. Firstly that I'd been unable to enjoy anything deeper than a funky advert. Also, I'd stopped drinking completely, too depressed. Further signs were spread amongst the numerous abandoned literary works that simply would never be completed. An interest in my professional life seems as alien to me as aliens living in an alien world doing alien things.
I have MDD and PTSD because one crisp September day last year, I watched two people who I love without limit plummet face-first onto a concrete path.
That last bit wasn't a joke.
Well I had to laugh. In an instant I'd overtaken the bipolars and the agarophobics of the world and been given my own "mental" throne from which to declaim the world as cruel and forbidding. Brilliant.
This mean that I can now shoplift, drink excessively or frequent parlours given over to hideously obscure fetishes, without incurring any condemnation that might stick. Brilliant.
It also means that if I'm feeling really selfish or obstructive I can just pull out my psychiatrist's report and wave it in the faces of those who oppose me.
This really is my Willy Wonka golden ticket. Quite remarkable good fortune. I recommend it to you all. This place I'm in could quite possibly be the only sanctuary left for the dilletante and the permanently immature. Nobody expects the psychologically damaged to hit this month's sales targets, I promise.
You don't have be mad to avoid work and spend your life indulging every last febrile whim that strikes you, but it helps.
The only problem being of course is that I'm deeply affected by the contents of that report, to the extent that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. I had an inkling that something wasn't right when I noticed that I'd spent the last year playing games on a computer and talking to myself for an hour every night in the kitchen, usually about three am.
There had been other clues too, that this report was getting close to the mark. Firstly that I'd been unable to enjoy anything deeper than a funky advert. Also, I'd stopped drinking completely, too depressed. Further signs were spread amongst the numerous abandoned literary works that simply would never be completed. An interest in my professional life seems as alien to me as aliens living in an alien world doing alien things.
I have MDD and PTSD because one crisp September day last year, I watched two people who I love without limit plummet face-first onto a concrete path.
That last bit wasn't a joke.
posted by familyhobgoblin at 1:44 PM
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