#1 – Fuck it. Let me try this thing.

 

My girlfriend, Rhianne, said she will break up with me if I don’t see a psychologist. She thinks I have issues. She says I only show real emotion when I’m high, when I’m writing, or when something annoys me.

“Hugo, I don’t feel your love, it’s either nothing, or it’s anger.”

The thing is, I don’t know if I do love her love her, if that’s even a thing.

She says she’s only still with me because my writing reveals I actually do have a heart. The tragic part is, she’s not finding my heart in poetry, or novellas, but instead, my heart is apparently expressed via the very sophisticated comic genre. On a side note, I write better than I draw, and my writing is very mediocre. That explains why I don’t do it for a living. It also explains why I haven’t even finished a draft. It’s just random, unconnected scenes that deal with themes like grief, redemption, sacrifice and other random stuff. But for whatever reason, the creative process, in particular the writing, is very therapeutic. Perhaps it’s my soul desperately yearning for some outlet to express those emotions that I’m seemingly unable to share during real life interactions.

WP#1 - 1

Image: Example of what my mediocre, but therapeutic, ‘creative process’ reads and looks like.

 

So anyway, I told a psychologist all of this. Yes that’s right, I can’t believe it myself but I actually went to see a psychologist. He was a real pretentious twat, making that fifty three minute session incredibly painful. I almost feel molested in a way, that I was sharing things so deep and personal with someone I didn’t want anything to do with. I’m glad I didn’t tell him about my little drug problem.

Anyway his genius idea was for me to write down moments in my day, exactly as they occurred, and to include all my thought processes as I remember them, all the reasoning, all the emotions, behind every action, every word, every thought. He mentioned it was a strategy in psychology. I forgot the terminology he used, but the purpose of doing this is apparently to distance the self, from the self, to see the self, in order to, what for it, know thy self. I’m still not sure what my position is on that. If he wasn’t such a self absorbed prick, I would be inclined to show more interest in it. However, the more he talked, the more I wanted to leave, and so the less responsive I became. If it wasn’t for the promise I made to Rhianne, I would have left mid-way through the session. But not even for Rhianne’s sake could I go back, so I didn’t.

“Well yeah, it’s unorthodox, but there could be something in that, just try it at least” Rhianne pleaded.

“Nah, can’t do it. His a prick”

“You know even pricks can speak the truth, you do it all the time”

I knew Rhianne was right, but I’m not a masochist to go see him again, and I’m too proud to follow advice from a guy like that.

“Nah, truth’s got some integrity, doesn’t want to be associated with a prick like that”

“Go see someone else then”

“Nope, not going to put myself through that again”

“Hugo, you promised you wouldn’t stop after the first session”

“I didn’t know I was going to feel this fucking stupid for doing it”

“Wow, you really are a selfish prick”

“I wouldn’t have gone to the fucker if I was a selfish prick, so go fuck yourself”

I shouldn’t of said that. It’s just that seeing a psychologist is something I would never do on my own accord. A bit of recognition for that, and maybe some appreciation would have been nice.

“You know what, I will, back in London!”

Well, true to her word, she is back in London. Not sure if she fucked herself, but she definitely getting fucked. I found out the other day she’s married. I’m genuinely happy for her though.

You see, in reflection, I feel I understand now. I feel she was sincere, that it wasn’t about control, it was just about this need of feeling loved. I think I understand that. I understand because being alone now, there’s moments where I kind of miss it myself. The weird thing is, I’m not torn up about it, and this got me thinking, maybe there is something wrong with me.

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