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I went to see some kind of specialist today. He was someone that the… - malachite cursive [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
malachite cursive

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[Jun. 15th, 2005|06:46 pm]
malachite cursive
I went to see some kind of specialist today. He was someone that the university arranged for me to meet up with back when it happened. I kept finding excuses to put it off as I can think of nothing more dull than talking about my father. Anyway there's very little in the way of distraction and entertainment here, so my options are to divide my money into smaller and smaller parts and plan lean rice based meals flavoured with a little soy, or perhaps a spoonful of honey in a dish of oatmeal, write chapters of my novel down by the lake which is far less idyllic than it sounds,or walk over two miles to the nearest computer cluster that is still open now almost everyone else is back home. As my boredom spreads so my desire for human contact increases and drove me finally today into the office of the doctor. He told me right off that he doesn't believe in mental illness, which reminded me of scenes in peeep show where the two main characters refuse to accept that problems exist. Problems are bullshit to them. Thinking about those characters words coming out of the doctor's mouth made me want to laugh really badly and I was in discomfort for the rest of the session, it was like when I was younger and sat through church on the edge of hysteria when the wobbly red-faced priest would talk about the body of Christ. Being quite unsophisticated in the ways of Catholic doctrine I had the distinct impression that there was some sexual connection between the priest and the naked young body that adorned the cross he held aloft and it made me want to giggle quite badly. We spent a long time in the doctor's office talking about my feelings, my grieving process. I was bored rigid. i told him that My father's death was but a subtlety in the progression that started at some distant point that I can barely remember. He had been a shade to me for a long time and if anything his death brought a relief, as it can following a terminal illness.We had been closer when I was younger, and he was the only one I ever felt close to at all at home. We were all better off I think. Especially my father. I think the doctor was non-plussed, our session was complete in but a few minutes and he wanted to pad it out with a grieving exercise that i can only assume was of his own devising. We sat in the dark and he set a metronome going steadily at sixty crotchets per minute I think though in all honesty I'm no musician. I was to think about my grief as some tangible entity and count steadily aloud until I banished it. He wanted me to sit in the dark for a full fifteen minutes contemplating my father's death whilst counting the time and once that was over I would be free. Sickened by this trinity of doctor, father, priest I thought of nothing for as long as i could nothing but the beats of the metronome that were slightly out of sync with my heart. When i thought it was over and surely the lights would be back on any moment, i vomited right there on the floor.