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Fucked Up College Kids File 292
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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The Talking Cure
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I've done it again. Blood is so warm and vibrant, and long
sleeves are in fashion. I made the phone call, but I'm not into
it. Personally, blabbing about my inner hell to a paid stranger
feels like a failure. Teenage angst has evolved into adult illness,
but who am I to complain? There are thousands out there like me,
thousands who write poetry about their writhing souls and the
emptiness therein.
I guess you think things change. You kind of go along in
a happy daze until you realize that your personal demons have
been whispering to you, cutting through the daze like a dull knife.
Suddenly, you notice that they have been cutting at you for
months, and that they have already won. I acquiesced. It is easier
that way. You see, everyone has demons. You have them. Your parents
have them. Your partner has them. But the demons wear different
costumes for different people and some have more demons than others.
So I'm off to see the Wizard of Id, Ego, and SuperEgo.
I doubt he'll work any magic for me. You see, I don't trust anyone
anymore. I have learned that the only way others can endure the
gaggle of imps that follow me is to disguise them as angels, or
something even more frightening than angels. Then they will run
away. But I have learned that I can never be me again. I learned this
lesson a final time about 3 months ago, and there is no turning
back. To be raw, exposed, emotionally naked - these are things I
can no longer enjoy because I arouse fear in others. It is time
for my mask, and my wall, to return. Suddenly I will transform
into The Picture of Normality, and only I will know who I truly
am.
You see, that's what The Talking Cure is for. It doesn't
matter that I know what he is going to say. They use a fierce and
honest logic that I know better than my own, but somehow the
predictability gets you back in the Habit of Being Emotionally
Well. I guess life is merely the process of answering your own
questions, and the Wizard can help you pretend that your questions
are normal. They like to talk about spectrums of normality, and
they paste you onto the spectrum somewhere in the normal range
just so you can feel guilty about seeking help when the Abnormal
need it much more than you do. They smile quietly and tell you
that you are ok, and that all you have to do is put things into
perspective. They direct your sessions and make notes on yellow
pads, and you can see your life outlined neatly between the cage
of those thin blue lines. They write numbers on your insurance
claims, and, if you look them up in the Big Blue Book, you will
see your problems explained in thinly disguised clinical terms.
Borderline Personality Disorder. Clinical Depression. Bipolar
Disorder. They ask questions incessantly. Biting questions, the
kind that make you buy tissues before your next session. And then
you write them a big check, and you have to smile knowing that
you are essentially paying someone to be your best friend. Yet
all of this is worth it, somehow. It is easier to label yourself
with Mental Illness, because then you can hide behind it forever.
My friends think I am crazy. I know I am.
Palpable Obscure.
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