The table that separates us finds itself depressingly littered with little inspirational “Keep Hanging On”s and “Only you can change you” etchings on kitschy fogged glass, a box of single-ply, buck-fifty tissues, and a jug of water that just looks room temperature. I’m taking in each little piece for five minutes, when she clears her throat, unassumingly but with an obvious let’s-get-to-it-shall-we import. My eyes creak up to hers, which happen at this point to be angled down at her small notebook. I know what she’s going to ask. Thoughts of suicide? No? Any ideas of hurting others? No? How’s the trazadone been working for you? Made things worse? All the while, her eyes don’t shift from her paper, all the while I’m sitting on her couch like I’m sitting on a bus, just waiting for my stop. I note a clandestine look in my direction, and try to catch it, but to no avail. And with nothing more, she twirls her chair half a revolution to face her computer. Prosaically prescribing Prozacs, or whatever PharmaCo has given her money to push; she’ll do it to me too. The prognosis of these drugs seems to always be the same - the complete abortion of all fertile thought. I think I’ll say something now. 

 

So we’ll put you on 40mg of trazadone and I’ll see you in six weeks.

 

Well,

 

 

fuck.

1. danikroll reblogged this from johnyadollahi and added:

   really really fucking hate this.

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