So I talked to mom yesterday (I was on a brief, but hardcore one-way no speaking thing with her after The Separation discussion, realized I was silly, and quit it) and she said I should call the doctor’s office that seems to have forgotten all about me and DEMAND to get an appointment with them. I shrugged and said I didn’t want to talk about it, went home and analyzed it to bits. This is what I figured out.

1. I don’t want to call anyone, least of all the doctor’s office that has fucking DISSED me.

2. Demanding anything goes very much against all the oh-so-girly bits of my upbringing; even if I want to be the kind of person who demands things, I’m really not.

3. If I would get an appointment after calling, demanding, and refusing to hang up until they said yes, I wouldn’t want the appointment anyway because I would have forced it. I know this is insane, but this is also precisely why I NEED therapy. This presupposes a) that they care about whether I’m there or not, b) that they care about ME, c) that the care/therapy I get is dependent on their feelings towards me, and d) that the person I demand things from will talk smack about me with the person that does the therapy-ing. I know that it doesn’t work that way, but I wouldn’t be comfortable with the situation if I got an appointment after forcing one.

4. I’m pretty sure none of these people can help me, anyway (and this is where the Meyer-Briggs scale bandwagoning begins). I have very high standards as to which people I will listen to and take advice from. Mostly, I’ve realized that the nurses-gone-therapists they have at the doctors’ office have pretty much the same amount of education I have, and my education has mostly revolved around criticizing and deconstructing the theories these people studied as truths. They’re also mostly Freudians, and I fucking HATE Freud. And Freudians. I need a Foucaultian therapist. I don’t think there are any.

I’m also pretty certain they’re all F types. Oh the horror of F types. Being a T, I don’t think there are any aspects of my quirks and insanities I haven’t analyzed to bits yet. I don’t need help with analyzing them again, from the viewpoint of a Freudian F-type. There are few things they can say about my paranoias and phobias that I can’t shoot down too, I suspect. I AM right after all. There are germs and bacteria everywhere, people spread diseases and don’t wash their hands after going to the loo. These are truths; the fact that everyone isn’t a mysophobe probably has more to do with the way they react to this, than the germs themselves. I don’t want to get sick, I definitely don’t want to get stomach bugs, and not being around people lessens the risk of getting ill. The thing with phobias are they are said to be irrational fears; I’m pretty convinced my fear IS rational. The denial of the possibility to get sick from fraternizing with the plebs is what is irrational. I suspect the Freudian F-type therapists will have a very hard time convincing me of anything else.

Meh. I don’t know what else to say. I suspect these are all things therapists would say is part of my problem. Maybe it is. I just have a very hard time allowing anyone else to tell me how to do things.

Huh. This is so weird. My parent’s are moving apart, after 25 years of marriage. I suppose 25 years is an even, round, and good number to decide not to live together anymore on. They’re not getting divorced, and I don’t think they’re breaking up either. They were unclear on that subject. They’re just not going to live together anymore. They tried to make it not such a big deal, but I don’t know. It feels like a pretty massive deal to me. I don’t even get WHY it does; I mean, I haven’t lived with them since 2003, they promised to spend holidays together, and mumbled something about Sunday dinners. To ME everything will, at least practically, be the same, at least until they decide whether to actually get divorced or not. Still it feels like nothing will ever be the same again. I can’t really wrap my head around it. I forget it, and then it pops back up again. I’m 25, dagnabbit, I’m too old to be a kid in this situation. I won’t have to lug my things between apartments, I won’t have to decide which parent to spend Christmas with, there are, weirdly enough to be my family, no hard feelings involved. And everything still feels broken.

And when I got back home after the family meeting thing at the house where Mom won’t live anymore, Dad called and said his mother had fallen at the living facility she’s at, and maybe has a broken something. This day is the weirdest ever.

Oh, I’m in such a pissy mood right now. My laptop gave up and died this Saturday, after three and a half years of (all in all) loyal service. I suppose three and a half years for a laptop is okay, but I’m SO not ready to let go. I managed to get in and back up the few photos I’d saved after re-installing in May, and my Sims 2 game, so nothing important was lost. Except all my bookmarks, which I forgot to back up. The shittiest part, though, is that Boyfriend’s laptop is away on service, so now we have to fight over Ye Olde Desktoppe, that’s too old and cranky to even run the Sims2. I’m having serious withdrawal. I installed the game in the vain hope that it somehow MAGICALLY would run, despite it all, and I got it to start, but… actual playing was like looking at a slide-show, even with all the settings set to the minimum. Call the waaahmbulance, ’cause I’m seriously dying here.

We’re also beginning to suspect that our house is, in fact, built on top of the Gates to Hell. The entrance and stairwell is littered with passive aggressive notes, as well as the laundry room, and Bitchy Neighbour Downstairs is whining that SillyDog is too loud when moving around the apartment after SEVEN O’CLOCK in the evening. Boyfriend’s been attacked by various Know-it-alls who try to tell him how to handle dogs while walking SillyDog – the entire neighbourhood seems to consist of whiny, bitchy, butthurt crybabies. And the most annoying thing since we moved here? All our electronics break. Seriously. First it was the espresso machine, then Boyfriend’s macbook, and now my laptop.

And because both fixing the laptop and upgrading Ye Olde Desktoppe would involve changing motherboards, there’s no point in even thinking about it. I’m trying to impress the importance of having at least ONE decent computer in the household on my dad, but he doesn’t seem to understand. He offered my brother’s old computer, which pretty much has the same specs as Ye Olde One.

And Boyfriend’s mother and father is here to visit, too. I like them, I really, really do, but there are PEOPLE in my HOME when I want to be alone and sulk about not getting my daily Sims2-fix.


We took SillyDog to a groomer today, to cut his nails. SillyDog was NOT amused. We put a muzzle on him just to be on the safe side, so instead of bite marks I have scratches from his panicked flailing. He snagged my lip, too. When we were done, I was dripping with sweat and bleeding from the mouth. Boyfriend got the back end of SillyDog, so he escaped unscathed. The groomer told us that we should have made SillyDog accept getting his nails clipped earlier. Nah, ya think? It’s not like we wanted to have a 33 kg Cerberus-like dog that doesn’t like to get his nails clipped. If we didn’t really, REALLY had to get help with it, we’d have done it ourselves. We’ve only had him for six months, and that is plenty of time to work on getting a dog to let you cut his nails, if that is the only problem that dog has. We had some more pressing issues with SillyDog when we got him; such as teaching him to walk on a leash, understanding other commands than “shake”, and getting him to communicate in ANY other way than with his teeth. Somehow, clipping his nails was not our highest priority. We made due with filing them instead.

I suppose the groomer would have been more sympathetic if we had explained all this, but with her tone of voice, that didn’t really seem like an option. I’m also intrigued by the notion that we should somehow already have worked on this; as if we could somehow have already done it, just because she told us we should have.

Anyway, we went to a nearby coffee shop afterwards, to reward ourselves for surviving the ordeal. The coffee shop is close to the water, and when SillyDog got tired of sitting still and having coffee like civilized people, we went down to the water to let him bark at the waves. Well, that’s what he usually does, anyway. Up until now, he’s seemed to be afraid, or at least deeply skeptical  of water larger than that in his water bowl, but this time he went right in, kicking with his front legs to make it splash, and putting his nose in it and blowing bubbles. We’ll go with him to bathe again, with a longer leash so he can swim some, too.

SillyDog was very, very tired when we got back home. We fed him a bunch of treats to compensate for cutting his nails, and then he fell asleep under the desk, all curled up.

About two years ago I started to not want to leave my apartment. It wasn’t that I wanted to stay home, I just didn’t want to go anywhere. I’ve always handled my shitty moods and stuff with wanting to go out, seeking out places where there are lots of people and preferably alcohol involved. I used to go to pubs several nights a week. I made stupid jokes. I got drunk. I made out with strange people just to see if I could. I studied hard, I worked hard and partied even harder. I was fun to be around. It wasn’t always so fun to be me; especially not when I ended up going home with people I really shouldn’t have gone home with, like a friend-turned-fuckbuddy’s brother. Oops.

But then I got fed up. I started having more panic attacks (not knowing that was what it was, of course), my stomach started acting up; I had to call in sick for work because I threw up in the morning when I realized I had to go there. Basically, my body was like “WTF dude, you need to calm down”. And gradually, going out started losing it’s charm. It was more pain than it was worth. I rather stayed at home, reading, internetsing, just doing nothing.

At first there was no problems with keeping in touch with my friends, they came over and played video-games, or had coffee, or just hung about. It was nice.

But recently, I’ve started noticing we’re drifting apart. They don’t call me, and I stopped calling them when I realized they had so much going on they almost always had to turn me down when I suggested we’d hang out. It sucks. I know I’m probably not the most fun person to be around right now, seeing as all I do is play the Sims, chat online or take walks with the dog, but I thought we had a friendship that relied on more than getting drunk together. It just doesn’t happen much right now, basically. I can’t tell them stories of all the stupid things I did while drunk, or at all, because my best ones they’ve already heard or saw happening; and I don’t do stuff like that anymore. I’d really like to spend time with them still, and if they’d just ask me, I’d probably tag along on stuff they do. But they don’t ask me. Or they ask Boyfriend if WE want to do stuff, and when he says he can’t but they should ask me, nobody asks.

I don’t want to whine, I don’t want pity, I just want my fucking friends back. I know I could just pick up the phone and call, but it sucks hearing them say they don’t have time to see me. I’d like to have some dignity left.

And then I saw them all today on the yearly picnic/soccer-thing. And I realized we don’t have that much in common anymore. They still lead the kind of life I did two years ago, and I sit around and do nothing. I guess these things happen. People grow apart, move, get married, have kids and stop being friends. But it sucks so bad.

And I miss them. I miss the me I was with them, too.

Woke pretty early today, for me at least. Don’t really know why, I usually sleep longer. Something felt weird. Read for a little while, not really able to pinpoint what the uneasyness came from. Finally got up, no appetite, hard to have breakfast. It kind of smells funny here too. I’ll take SillyDog out on a walk, will report back later.

Just got back from walk with SillyDog. He is clearly troubled by something, he kept sniffing the air and whimpering. He sometimes does that for no apperant reason, but combined with the funny smell and my feeling that something isn’t right made me jumpy, though it is midday and the sun is shining. We didn’t take a long walk. SillyDog found some sort of bird foot under a shrubbery. Who the hell leaves a chicken foot in the middle of a suburb, next to a house?

Met some IBM workers from the office next to our house. Must have had a office party or something, they looked pretty unsteady, kinda shuffled when they walked and they were gray in the face. Probably had too much to drink yesterday. Glad they kept their eyes averted because I couldn’t help but stare.

Boyfriend just took SillyDog for a second walk. SillyDog seems to be even more ADD today than usual. Boyfriend wanted me to come too, but I didn’t want to go out again. I know I keep saying it, but there’s something not right here. I think he was irritated with me, he mumbled something about that if I had gone longer this morning, maybe SillyDog would be sleeping calmly now. I haven’t told him about the smell or my uneasyness. I want to see if he notices too.

Found this just now. Zombie uprising? O RLY? I’m pretty easily fooled, but come ON.

Will continue updating through the day, anyway. Zombies are too good to pass up.

Boyfriend came back from walk complaining of odd smell. I knew it! I might be crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy yet. SillyDog is still refusing to be still. He is more disturbed by this than we are, and both Boyfriend and I are pretty spooked now. I’ve reloaded the majer news sites, but no mention. Reports of zombies keep coming in here though. My net friend Britpoptarts is reporting weird sounds on her roof, and persistent sirens going off. We live next to the fire station, but it is quiet here. More quiet than usual, even. A murder of crows almost flew through the window just now. The hell?

ZOMG. I’m listening to the radio, Christer i P3, they have some sort of listener-call-in about what makes the kid in you happy. People are calling in reporting supposed zombie sightings, though. The radio show host is trying to keep it light, but the panic in is voice is apperant. I hope they don’t break the transmissions, though. I don’t know why the news doesn’t say anything. Are they trying to keep it quiet?

Still not convinced it IS zombies, though. Oh well. I will have a lookaround when walking SillyDog next time he needs to go out. I can’t stay in all day just because people’s imaginations are running rampant, besides our neighbours have already complained he makes too much noise. Keeping him inside all day will not make him calmer.

Right, I’m now convinced. Gray-faced shuffling stinky people are coming in hordes from the IBM office. I’ve always suspected something was amiss with the IBM workers, but zombies? This is too much. The stench is pretty bad now, too. The IBM zombies are moving towards the restaurants they usually go to for lunch. I guess old habits die hard.

As Rowandoll reports, this is all over the world now. It seems Sweden was late in the epidemic. I’m pretty glad the worst bits didn’t happen while I was asleep though, I wouldn’t have wanted to wake up to hoards of zombies roaming the streets.

I wonder if this has something to do with the heatwave. Most countries that seem to be affected are warm ones, and the last couple of days it’s been insanely hot here.

I’m NOT looking forward to SillyDog’s next walk. Must stock up on weapons; too bad Sweden has harsh gun laws. It’d be neat with a gun right about now.

And re: Vårmamma’s comment. This is affecting animals now, too? Zombie bears… I hope this gets under control somehow!

Mhayinde reports that the zombies will leave you alone if you are covered in their blood. Good to know for SillyDog’s next walk. Must bring some sort of weapon, too. I hope the IBM zombies are still in their favourite restaurants, though. It seems to have only affected IBM so far in my neighbourhood. I wish they’d locked the doors to the office building before they got out.

Got back from a walk with SillyDog a while ago. Managed to take som photos with the camera in my cellphone; they aren’t the best of pictures but they might illustrate something at least. I brought a knife with me and hoped the smell of rotting flesh from the IBM zombies would be enough to get SillyDog to defend me if the zombies would attack. Boyfriend went along too. If I’m going to die in the Zombiecalypse, I sure as hell ain’t going alone.

Through the front door
Photo taken from the inside of our apartment building; IBM office visible behind tree.

I was prepared for the zombies to be all over the streets, but strangely enough the streets were empty. When we went by the restaurants the IBM worker usually eat at, we saw them through the windows. They watched us from inside, but none of them tried to go after us. Maybe they prefer to be on known places, or they were satisfied with eating the kebab meat? I suppose the owners of the kebab place had a worse time, though. I’ll just say we probably won’t be having falafel for awhile, is we survive this.

IBM office building
Took a picture of the IBM office building, which seemed to be empty. I guess the office zombies took the rest of the day off.

I went round the back of another building in the vicinity, and found signs of a struggle and possible other anti-zombie fighters.
I wonder if the small Ericsson flag is a sign that Ericsson employees are affected too?

I also found something smelly wrapped in an old tarp.

I didn’t have to lift the tarp to know what it was. The smell gave it away. No other signs of the anti-zombie fighters though, maybe they fled. I’m still surprised by the calm of it all, and by the fact that the outbreak seem to be limited to IBM (and possibly Ericsson). This doesn’t follow the pattern of the other cities and places this happened in. Strange.

Well, I was wrong; it isn’t confined to the IBM workers, and the streets are no longer deserted. I don’t know what made it change; perhaps it was the change in weather, the cooler temperature made them more active? I heard they spontaneously combust in warm enough weather. Not that it’s been very hot here today, but if zombies can err on the side of caution I think that’s what they did. The question is how our Swedish zombies found this out. Are all zombies connected, somehow? Are they part of some sort of hive mind, a zombie Borg? Or, is it that the zombie plague in fact originated within IBM; and the word has gotten back from other, hotter, areas?

Anyway, hell if I’m going to go out any more today, or ever again if the zombies aren’t beaten somehow. I have no weapons; certainly no long-range one, and I will NOT go close enough to use short-range weapons. I’ll stay indoors, watch crappy TV, close the windows and blinds and be glad I live on the third floor. They’re not getting in here. SillyDog will have to survive being without walks somehow, the neighbours will have to live with it. Knowing my neighbours though, there will be passive-aggressive notes in the entrance asking zombified occupants to clean up their drool and any dropped limbs.

Damn the lack of alcohol in the apartment, I need a DRINK.

I’m logging off, see you tomorrow (if we’re not all undead by then).

What this is about.

See, for awhile, I was under the impression that the singer in Fall Out Boy just needed some lessons in how to A R T I C U L A T E, considering that any and all songs by FOB are completely incomprehensible, even if you try to read the lyrics while you listen. Maybe his toungue is just too big for his mouth, or he had to have it in a cast as a child and never regained full movement and control; or he labours under the false theory that the mumbling makes him seem mysterious.

Now, I don’t think so any more. I think he does it on purpouse. I think he does this because the YouTube spoof videos trying to decipher his mumblings give FOB more publicity than MTV could ever give them. I wouldn’t even know of FOB if not for the YouTube parodies of their songs.

So; well played, Fall Out Boy. Just wish you might start with lyrics that actually makes sense, when you cut out the mumblings.

And, the mandatory YouTube links to illustrate what I mean:

Damn, I’m so stupid. I’m reading this book called False Memory by Dean Koontz (since when did he drop the “R”, by the way? I distinctly remember there being an R in between Dean and Koontz.) Without giving away too much, the people in the book are getting their heads fucked with. I read it before going to sleep, and dreamt that They (you know, that undefined They that’s always after you in dreams, or maybe just in my dreams) were coming to get me and DO stuff to me, and to conceal that I knew what They were up to, I had to hide the book so They wouldn’t know I’ve been reading about what They were doing to people. I found the book shoved in under the mattress this morning. But my glasses are fucking GONE. I guess I must have decided to hide them, so They wouldn’t know I’ve been reading at all. I’ve searched everywhere in the bedroom, and they’re just not there. And everything is BLURRY. Argh. I’m going to have such a bad headache before I find them.

We’ve been clicker training SillyDog, which seems to be a pretty good way of training him. Yesterday Boyfriend found him trying to bury something in a pile of laundry, looking extremely guilty. Turns out SillyDog had found one of the clicker-thingys, and tried to hide it from us. I assume he’s connected the clicker-thingy to treats, and decided that he should be the one in control of the Magic Treat Clicker-Thingy.

Here’s a free interpretation of what might have gone through SillyDog’s silly little head:


When I was 12 or so, I  vowed never to fight with my parents the way I’d heard teenagers did. This vow didn’t last very long, naturally, and I’m not really sure why or how it started, but we started fighting. And how we fought. I think it started off pretty innocently, with just the frequency of quarrels going up. After a while mom and I could hardly be in the same room without having vicious scream-fests. Dad was rarely involved in the actual fighting, since he hates when people fight. Sometimes mom would go and have a talk with him about me after fights, and he’d always, unquestioningly, take her side. The fighting in itself was pretty bad, but what was worse was that we never talked things over afterwards. Mom, or dad, depending on the extent of the fight, would come and say “We’re not fighting anymore, okay”, and if I didn’t say I was sorry there’d be another day of terse conversations and uneasiness. I can’t ever remember talking things through with less heated feelings. Leaving the problems unsolved like this made the fights pile on top of each other, so that each fight was merely a continuation of the previous one, turning the periods of time in between into tense cold wars that could turn into full-blown nuclear warfare at any time.

My parents didn’t trust me at the time, either. Except for the fights, I was a goody two-shoes who did her homework, always went to school, never stayed out late on school nights (well… I didn’t have any friends to stay out late with for a while, but that’s beside the point). I didn’t even taste alcohol until the fighting was a regular occurrence. I didn’t smoke when the fighting started, and I didn’t touch drugs (and still don’t). Despite all this my parents were convinced that the only explanation for my behaviour was that I was high. They tried to make me tell them about the drugs I did, and every time I was late home mom would sniff my breath. I think she once even looked at my arms for needle marks. I was 15 and didn’t even know anyone using anything else than tobacco, alcohol and sometimes weed. Being constantly distrusted is a great incentive to start doing a lot of things you’re not supposed to. I figured, what the hell, they think I’m doing this anyway, I might as well start. Around the same time I started hanging out with a group of girls who were not the best company for anyone. At 15, I started drinking, smoking and making out with strange, older boys at parties were we flirted and wore revealing tops to score booze. It’s a fucking miracle I wasn’t raped then, or got robbed, or got otherwise exploited.

Sometimes during the fights, I’d have out-of-body experiences. I’d see myself kinda from the side, hearing me yell and cuss and rant, unable to do anything to stop it. I was so angry my anger took on a life of its own, completely controlling me. I could only watch what it’d make me do, and hope it would subside eventually. One incident I remember especially, was when we had a huge fucking row in the upstairs hallway. I can’t remember what it was about, but I remember seeing myself from outside my body, angry tears running down my face, arms gesticulating wildly, my voice almost cracking as I bellowed obscenities at my parents. I remember thinking, What the fuck am I doing? I felt backed into a corner, and fought like a trapped animal. Once when we started fighting while I was cutting bread, I almost stabbed my dad. The impulse was so strong I nearly did it, but instead I put the knife down and walked away. That still is, to this day, one of the scariest moments in my life.

One morning when mom and I had had another run-of-the-mill-fight the previous evening, dad came and wanted to talk to me while I was having breakfast. Mom came too, and stood behind him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad so angry before. He explained what mom had told him I’d done, and warned me to never do it again. Problem was, mom’s version of events when we fought always greatly differed from mine. And my version never counted for anything. I’m not saying he should have listened to me without questions, but the way my version of the happenings always was forcibly ignored made me question if what I thought I had experienced really had happened. This time, I started to explain, but he cut me off, saying he didn’t want to hear my lies, and that all I ever did was lie.

It was like he struck me in my face. I knew mom’s and my versions differed, but I never knowingly lied about what I’d done. I started crying, trying to tell him that it wasn’t like that, I wasn’t lying. I looked at mom to back me up, to somehow dampen his anger. She looked me in the eye and said he’s right, you need to stop lying about our fights. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I was pretty sure things had not gone down the way mom said. I knew I hadn’t dreamed my version of it. But standing there, with my parents telling me all I thought I’d seen happen hadn’t happened made me doubt my perception of the events. Maybe they were right? They seem to think so, I thought. It felt like balancing on the edge of a bottomless pit, like maybe the entire world, all I thought I knew, wasn’t like I thought it was. It felt like the walls billowed around me, the room shrank, all there was was me on the chair, not knowing what was true and what was false. The realization that my word was worth nothing horrified me. It still does, to this day.

I think the constant questioning of what I had seen had really happened or not that I had to do during those years still is haunting me. It landed me in a abusive (psychologically, not physically) relationship with a controlling SOB for three years (more on that another day). It still, eight years later, makes me question if I really share the same reality as others when I strange things happen. I’m still not sure if the things I perceive is real or not.

I still spend time with my parents. I like them. I just don’t like our history together, or the fact that these things were never discussed. I think my mom sometimes blame herself for me being mentally unsound now, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that I think those years contributed to how I feel today. This is a lonely place to be.

I got a letter from my doctor the other day, that basically said I didn’t have to go to group therapy anymore. I didn’t know I had to get her permission not to go, since it’s voluntary and all, but I guess I should be glad I don’t have to go there again. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with group therapy per se, it’s just that this particular group was… ugh. I’ve never seen such a mis-matched group of freaks in my life. Naturally, I’m not really allowed to talk about anyone in that group, but some sweeping generalisations of what might have happened can’t hurt anyone, right?

See, the thing is, I really don’t have any trouble with confiding in strangers. Actually, I prefer strangers to confide in; they don’t have any preconceived notions of what I’m going to say, and if I’m really lucky I never have to meet them again. And as long as I’m in a social setting where it doesn’t really matter what people think of me, I’m pretty open. So, theoretically, I’d be pretty good in a group therapy setting, confiding in equally crazy semi-strangers.

Only problem was, these crazy people we’re stuck with some sort of normalcy-complex. They refused to recognize that they were crazy. They stubbornly hung on to the notion that they could be normal if they only “tried a little harder”. Now, I don’t believe there is such a thing as absolute insanity, seeing as insanity in and of itself is heavily dependent on context, which lead to me going in to this group-thing with a somewhat… different point of view. I don’t think that these people were absolutely crazy, I think they (and I) are having a very reasonable reaction to a society that isn’t really fit for people, which makes us contextually, and perhaps relatively insane. So these would-be fellow crazy-people were, in fact, irritatingly normal, and trivialized the entire thing. They wanted to be assimilated, I wanted to find a way to cope with this shitty reality without changing who I am too much.

(Sidenote: Oooh! Data from Startrek in a completely different role on TV! And a midget!)

It’s not the easiest thing in the world to get psychiatric help here, unless you’re prepared to pay for it out of your own pocket. So these people, and I, who were weeded out to actually receive this sought-after psychiatric treatment, we really need it. There’s no place for moderately depressed people. You need to be in pretty bad shape to get any kind of counselling through the public health care system.

And that’s why I was thoroughly pissed off when they started to whine about utterly trivial things, like “I sometimes feel bad after drinking too much alcohol, which I did this weekend on my trip to [city far, far away]”, and “my boyfriend left me and it sucks”. Now, I don’t dispute the fact that these things can be very, very hard to deal with. The day-after-paranoia sucks, getting broken up with sucks, life, in general, can be pretty sucky. But I take offense when I hear someone talking about flying halfway around the world, and then whining about being hung over, when I can’t even get on the subway to visit friends on the other side of town. There’s a slight discrepancy of problems, there.

It’s not that I doubt that these people have genuine problems for which they, apparently, need psychiatric help. It’s just that when they waste their, and my, time with droning on about these god-damn BORING problems, I get pissy about it. If they’re in the group, they need to be there, and they probably have worse problems than they shared. I just don’t get why they even bother to go there if they’re not going to take it seriously. Srsly.

Oh, and also, there was the ganging up on, the fighting, and the fact that when I shared stuff like my ex controlling me and threatening to commit suicide if I left him, they all shut up and then changed subjects. It’s a very strange feeling to out-misfit the other misfits.

To be honest, it wasn’t like I didn’t participate in the fighting. There was this one guy in the group, who constantly spouted cliche’s, sounding like an inspirational poster, no matter what anyone said. I called him on it, and we got into a fight. The last time I went to a session, I spent the entire time trying to stare him down, amused by his squirming.

Anyway, my defection from the group therapy means I’m bumped down to the bottom of the waiting list again, and get to go without any kind of help until I get a new therapist assigned to me. It’s wonderful. I suppose I only have myself to blame, because if I only “tried a little harder”, I could be “normal”, too.