Dead fish, new therapist

Well, I fucking knew it.  All my remaining fish (3) died overnight.  WTF?  How hard should it be to keep 3 lousy fish alive and happy?

I shouldn’t be allowed around any animals.

Their deaths have triggered my guilt and shame about contributing to the death of my dear dog, Willow, 3 years ago.  She became overweight (my fault), developed knee problems because of the excess weight (my fault), and subsequently died of kidney failure secondary to the anti-inflammatory medication I gave her for the pain (my fault).

I’m a freaking vet. for Christs’ sake and  i can’t even keep 3 wee fish from croaking, let alone my precious companion.  I SUCK.  I SUCK.  I FUCKING SUCK.  I should drown myself in the tank.

 

 

Yesterday afternoon I met a new therapist – D.   Kinda laid back (good), looks like an ex-hippie (long ponytail, a bit chubby), has painted his office green and orange (odd), and used the F word once during our chat (good to know).

As it was our first meeting, we spent time getting to know each other.  He denied using any recording devices in the room.  I think I believe him.

We touched on “how do you like Doc?”, “what makes you happy?”, do I ever talk to myself in the mirror? -ah no, D –  he does.   He referred to other clients of his as examples – “I have clients who are suicidal 90% of the time so I don’t call the police at the mention of suicidal ideation” (great, likely to come up).  He wants to review the medical records of my most recent suicide attempt before next time (bound to be highly entertaining – not).

He told me I am “an enigma”, that he usually has a “feeling about people by now”.  Hmmm. I’m as transparent as stained glass.  I guess an enigma is an OK thing to be.

At the end, he asked me if I wanted to come back.  “Yea, sure.”  Then he asked “frequency?” and all I could think of was urinary tract infections (why does he want to know if I have a UTI?), then I figured out he meant how often did I want to see him.  Duh.

He asked me what I thought therapy was about.  Don’t really know but “I guess it’s to help you learn to suffer graciously.”

So, for now, I guess I have a new therapist. My next appt. is in 12 days at 7 am.  Who can think or speak intelligently at that time of day?  I’ll just stay up all night.

I did, at least, go to the appt. straight although it might have been hard to tell as I stumbled through the hallway to his office, forgot my insurance card, and had trouble following his train of thought at times.   I have gone to therapy appts. stoned before.  One of my former therapists said I talked more when I was.  Probably best to wait a while before he meets that me.

That’s all i want to say. I need to go flush 3 fish down the loo.  Boo.             Doc.

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2 responses to “Dead fish, new therapist

  1. Dear Doc,

    I wish I could get 7.00am appointments, get it over and done with and don’t spend the day waiting and panicking.

    Love Dotty xxx

    P.S. Sorry your fish died. But fish die or they don’t die – when I was a teenager I obsessively looked after my little goldfish for months then I accidentally killed it by spraying hairspray in the room. On the other hand, I’ve had two goldfish living in half a whisky barrel in my garden for 5 years, they’re happy as Larry and I do nothing for them, all I feed them is one fresh bit of duckweed each spring, keep the fountain bubbles on low and they’re still alive and dashing about, speedy little buggers. It’s not your fault they died, vet or not.

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