When my therapist advised me to check into a treatment center, all I could think of was how wonderful it would be to go somewhere restful and sleep abundantly.
It’s exhausting fighting for every second of your life.
“Treatment center” is therapist jargon for “mental hospital.” I prefer the romance of “loony bin.” It comes from the word “lunatic,” derived from “luna.” There’s something comforting in the antiquated notion that I, like vampires and werewolves, am simply the victim of changing phases of the moon.
I have an ongoing fantasy of electroshock treatments cauterizing the endless loop in my brain. No “and how does that make you feel?” for days and months and years; just a flip of a switch; current flows; I am healed.
It takes a giant leap of faith to presume that a degree and a shingle guarantee someone will possess the empathy, patience, understanding…
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