Archaeology of the Mind

So I’m sat there with this complete stranger, that’s supposed to tell me what’s wrong with my life, what’s wrong with my brain. In half an hour she’s going to tell me what’s wrong. The very fact that I’m sitting here means that I already know what the problem is. I’ve spent my whole life analysing myself. I mean, you work out before you leave the infants that you’re different. While they’re still reading Peter and Jane you’re working your way through a children’s Bible, I mean, my parents weren’t Bible thumpers or anything so how come no-one noticed it wasn’t what seven year olds did. Nine year old boys don’t write letters to the local Vicar asking him why sometimes they’re good and sometimes they’re bad, and have no grip on why they’re neither. The best is, when the Vicar did call around to meet this inquisitive child, I just wanted him to leave me alone.

This woman then, this person with all the qualifications starts firing these questions that within half an hour will give her a qualification in Steveology. It’s a joke really, but I know that I have to play ball if I’m to get the tablets I need to try and stabilise my moods, because despite the highs, I can’t take the lows no more. I can’t handle the thought of another decade just treading water, going nowhere fast and all those clichés. Watching people around me who at some time or another have surpassed me, they know I’ve got problems, but it doesn’t change the fact that I just look lazy. It looks like I can’t be arsed to do anything, and the truth is… I can’t. You see, you begin to believe what they’re saying behind your back. They say ‘don’t believe your own myth,’ well maybe you shouldn’t believe all of your bad press either. I think that’s what becomes too much. That little voice in your own head that tells you you’re shit is bad enough, but when everyone else seems to agree with you what can you do. All the positive thinking, the glass is half full bollocks goes out the window.