Dave

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell...
~Matchbox 20

'Psyche Consult.'

That's a medical euphemism for do we release him, observe him for a few more days, or send the guy upstate to a room with padded walls where the sharpest object he'll ever see is a spoon. If I had understood what changing my mind would mean it's quite possible I would have finished off with the other wrist.

This doctor seems to feel that he already knows more about me than I do. Therefore, I don't really see the point in talking to him at all. Let him paint me up for whatever he wants to. Fuck you, doc. This is why I don't believe in therapy. It's my head, I live in it, you don't get to be party to my most private thoughts. Besides, life sucks and then you die, isn't that what they say? What difference does it make, when?

Well, ok… it matters… I know. Yes, really. I'm not as cynical as all that, honestly, I'm just… frustrated. I don't want to die of AIDS. You see it all the time in the papers and on TV; "Mr. so-and-so died today of complications resulting from the AIDS virus. He was 28 years old." …Or 30, or 35. He was way too fucking young, is what he was. They all are. And anyway, what about the complications that don't arise from AIDS? Isn't that why I'm here, sitting in this windowless, clinical, too-white office with a Shrink in his crisply starched coat and his cold questions?

No, I don't hate my mother. No, my father didn't molest me. No, doc, I don't have an issue with authority figures. No, I didn't contemplate killing myself it just suddenly seemed like the easiest answer. No, I don't wish I was dead you idiot, I called for help. No, it wasn't an attention ploy… I don't think. Well alright, yeah, maybe it was in some small way, but it wasn't that conscious or that deliberate, and I swear I didn't mean to do that to Sean. I swear. Not after… everything.

Fuck you, you don't get to make me cry.

No! I don't have a death-wish! Can't you see that? I have a life-wish. As in, I wish I had one. I wish the one I have was the life that I want. I wish I was the man that I really want to be. I wish I could live my own goddamn dream. I wish I had a boyfriend. I wish I had a job that paid more than $8.00 an hour. I wish I actually liked my job if that's all I can fucking make. I wish someone would fuck me tonight… maybe you doc? Y'up fer it? Right here on top of this cold, hard metal desk? Or maybe you'd like to ride me to heaven bent over the back of this armchair?

What's with the armchair anyway? I though a good shrink had a couch their patients could lie on. Too bad, you could have fucked me on that.

But that's crass, isn't it? Oh, I'm sorry, did I offend your sensibilities? You have a wife and 2.5 kids at home polishing your Porsche? Will they roll out the red carpet for you when you get home, maybe sit you down with a bottle of wine that costs more than I make in a day? I don't know how you can understand what it is to be me when you get more respect in one day than I get in a year. And now I have fucking HIV, too.

No, I'm not saying anything else. Yes, I'm calm. Yes, I made a bad decision. Yes, I'll let you know if I feel like talking. Yes, I have regrets, I have many. Must you humiliate me?

Yes, I want this session to be over. Yes, yes I want to go home, yes. Yes, please.