My psychiatrist calls it soul searching...

My psychiatrist calls it soul searching, I call it a different way to die. She thought it would be good to be in a new environment, I think the suicide rate is probably higher here in comparison with back home. Nevertheless, I moved. (You know your therapist is concerned about you when she's telling you I'm willing to stop taking your money. Go now, young fish, save your soul.)

You're probably wondering oh JEEPERS where did he MOVE? This is so EXCITING. Is it? I wouldn't know. After I tried offing myself, I stopped feeling. Sorry for my bluntness, that's just a phrase that I've repeated a few dozen times too many. Some people would call me a regular at the SSSHG, which i think stands for Suicide Survivors Self Help Group. (Participants use the unnecessary acronym to be indirect, but for all I know it stands for "Shit you Survived So to hell with it let's make a Group".You have to be more specific with us CRAZY people, never know when we're gonna ruin our soul. One confusing acronym and we might call it quits.)

Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8 to 10 (p.m., of course. We're not THAT dedicated.), and sometimes on Mondays. ("Studies show that people feel more depressed on Sundays and Mondays" I think the director had said. To be honest though, Im not entirely sure. I was too busy staring at her tits. Again, bluntness builds character. The leader of our group wears low cut shirts, and us looney toons are easily distracted.)

We sit in a circle and cry, basically. There is no other way to sum it up really. I could lie and say we talk about our 'traumatic experiences' and whatnot, but that's rare. First of all, when people are vulnerable enough to actually WANT to talk about whatever the heck is REALLY going on, they get all choked up on their words and spend the entire time sobbing (while the others pat them on the back in the most somber way and say comforting things like "it's okay, honey bear, just let it all out, darlin"... And I watch.). So there's THAT. Secondly, no one feels comfortable with more than two eyes staring at them (I'm not even going to make a joke about four-eyed-people with glasses, because I wear them). It's survival of the fittest, and more than a pair of eyes means lunch.

We don't hear many stories, but it's pretty self explanitory why everyone is here. Self harm is what they call it now, but im pretty sure a few centuries ago it was considered wizardry. Either way, functioning members of society don't like people killing themselves (oh come ON, guys. There are plenty of other folks to do the dirty work. If you do it yourself, then what will all them wife-killers do for fun?).

Its an uncomfortable situation when a decent human being makes that decision. It impacts everyone, maybe not intentionally, but it does. Someone offs themselves and all of a sudden your UPS guy starts questioning the meaning of life and moaning he was such a nice guy while in bed with his wife. (I meant cuddling, but interpret that however you'd like. Your mind doesn't have limitations, yet, I don't think.). Maybe he knew the guy, maybe he didn't. Either way, not only have you screwed with his mind, but now his poor wife has to pick up the pieces. (Just like last year when his goldfish died. Such a tragic experience.)

It's interesting how the constitution allows us to be happy, go-lucky people living cheery, perky lives. But one person wants the free will to end his miserable existence and everyone loses their minds. Why would you DO such a thing when you have SO MUCH to live for? Yes, so many butterflies to chase and clouds to float on. Why would I do such a thing?

What urges a man to take his own life? Lack of family, friends? Nah, I've got those- and it seems like the more I have, the more I feel urge to disappear. I know I have social issues, my therapist has declared that common knowledge. (Doesnt everyone have social issues in the eyes of their psychiatrist though? If its not daddy issues, then it's mommy issues. If its not depression, it's ADHD. Isn't it their job to say something is wrong with you? And isn't it your duty as a functioning citizen to find out all your little flaws and problems?)

"I think it's time to address the elephant in the room" she had said once. I was tempted to poke fun at that sentence, but it didn't seem like a good idea at the time. She already knew how crazy I was, but something tells me that joking about her weight problem was a little too far. (Standing at five foot one and two hundred pounds is the magnificent bearded lady! Come folks! Come one, come all, and witness for yourselves for just fifty cents! Don't be scared, kids, she don't bite! I imagined myself in the tent of the Ringley Bros Circus in nineteen thirty something or another. Man-oh-man, I'm the perfect specimen of what women call a 'douche bag'.)

So, I'm sitting there on her little therapuetic couch when she tells me that every issue I've EVER had derives from the fact that I'm an only child (Come on, lady, you can do better than that. Tell me I have a mental disorder or something.). And after that I stopped listening, the same way I just stopped feeling.

I attended these sessions with the fat lady for a similar reason that I atended the SSSHG: because I was curious to know how much she thinks she can figure out about me. It wasn't out of respect or belief in the profession. I just wanted to amuse her, or myself, whichever.

I stopped attending both therapies when I moved (OH, how I would miss the chubster's therapeutic couch, and the guy with the twitch in the group therapy sessions! Woe is me! Oh tempus fuget, oh mores!) Maybe deep down, I didn't want the townsfolk's first impression to be Betty, see that man with the beard? He's the town's new psycho. I hear he killed a man back in Vegas with nothin but his bare hands and a spork. Rumors spread like a virus, and distortion is one of their many wonderful qualities.

To be honest, I do miss the fat lady. She was an exceptionally clever little woman, when you didn't take her profession into consideration- that was total crock shit. Did you know that at least one time during our sessions, she would insult me in a cleverly subtle way? What a witty little woman, I thought. At this point, I would say something to counter her commentary, and she would laugh. I admire her dedication. She gave it a shot, maybe she failed, but she attempted it at least (that's more than most people can say).

All of a sudden (after I moved), I had all the free time in the world. Tuesdays AND Thursdays off- I was livin' the dream. Unfortunately, I had moved to a town where there was absolutely nothing to do on a Saturday, let alone on a week day. I tried video games for a time. Struggling to keep up with the younger guys, I gave up on playing. Maybe it was too late for a guy like me to dedicate his life to Call of Duty (or maybe it's just Maybelline).
Id love to say that Im a daily jogger, but exercise isn't really something depressed guys like me DO. People work out to impress people and try to get a girlfriend (or boyfriend or whatever). Since I'd decided to let myself die alone, I wasn't going to jog. "The more, the merrier". That apply to fat pounds too, right?