Day Two: Self-Exploration Through Collage-Making.

So Thursday is Day Two of my Epic Outpatient Adventure (EOA). It starts off more promisingly, as we begin to touch on the concept of dialectical behavioral therapy, which my psychiatrist Dr. P really wants me to get into. But then somewhere around midday it all begins to go awry when once again I find myself in the craft room, being asked to a make collage that "represented myself."


Listen, you Pet-Rock-having Make Love Not War Drop Beats Not Bombs Flower Child hippy dippy feel-good social worker, I do not need to tear shit out of magazines and glue-stick them onto cardboard to deal with my depression. Neither will it magically improve my self-esteem. I mean, the best thing I can say about it is that it is a break from the daily monotony and drudgery that is my life, that sitting there making Fimo beads is different than or better than wiping butts and playing Hi-Ho Cherry-O, but honestly, I can't believe insurance pays for this bullshit.



Please to taking note: Artwork is not my own.



Not to mention, the Cuckoo's Nest people still roam aimlessly, and I am at times scared for my very person.


I can barely remember the rest of the day; that's how much it has impacted me, I guess. Which is to say, not at all. The other people in the program get all metaphysical on me and talk about the intensely deep impact the classes have had on their lives, and how they are miles ahead of where they were mere days ago. And meanwhile, I'm sitting there thinking, "I am completely unchanged. Am I a bad person? Am I a stupid person? Am I so thick-headed or hard-headed that I cannot accept life lessons?" Everyone seems to be getting so much out of this, but I am not.


Not to mention, the fucking talking. OH MY GOD THE TALKING. Not only do I have to listen to psychiatrists and counselors and social workers talk all day long on grief, the stigma of mental illness, or mindfulness, but you remember Denise? Miss Chatty Cathy herself?





FUCKIN' FUCK, man. You've never heard anything like this. The talking never stops. Whether it's a counselor, a program manager, or Miss Fucking Chatty Fucking Cathy, the onslaught of words never ceases. And I have such a headache today, a raging agonizing headache, that all the talking just feels like bullets to my brain.



Mind bullets! That's telekinesis, Kyle.

So I end the day thinking, "I cannot do this one more second. I cannot come back tomorrow. I can't do this. I am not gaining anything, and I am spending seven hours a day in misery, and this is such bullshit, let's go make some macaroni art."


But then I go again on Friday. Mad props right? Friday is the worst day by far. Talk about having a headache. I think I'll die of an aneurysm right then and there, especially when Chatty Cathy begins telling me the story of her friend's son's friend for the seventh time.


I am very unsure what to do. I wish I'd never have to go back again. Because between smoothie-making and collage-making and listening to sessions on why there's a stigma associated with mental illness, I am so over it.


Even though it's the last thing I want, I will likely go back on Monday. One more day. I can do one more day. But fuck if I'm gonna spend my lunch hour listening to Chatty Denise. I'm going to have to escape to my car or something.


I feel so sad that this has not been nearly as helpful as I was told it would be. I feel shame at how I've not been able to glean wisdom from this all, that I have not reached any mind-blowing realizations, that I am unchanged. I dread talking to Dr. P again and telling him, "You know this shit that you talked up for months? Well it was p. much bullcrap."


I don't know. I'm disillusioned.


I can read all 75 self-affirmations a day, but honestly, how do I begin to believe this stuff?



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