The Mind Games that Therapists Play

So if you've ever been to a psychiatrist's office, you know it's the worst. You gotta talk to this asshole every fucking three months about every fucking thing that happened since the last time you talked to him, and there's only one thing you want to say to him, JUST GIVE ME MY FUCKING MEDICINE AND STOP WASTING MY TIME. But you don't say that because you need that medication more than you need your patience with this asshole. The other reason is because he fucking plays mind games with you so you don't talk about anything with him.

Here's how it works, you might think of telling him about all things other than him that piss you off, but that never happens and here's why.

Right when you come into the building, you go to the waiting room, EVERY WALL IS BLUE AND YOU FEEL SUDDENLY STONED like you smoked a joint, which is bad because you can't talk about —anything that irritates you— if you're relaxed.

Then you wait like a fucking hour and the walls are covered with the ugliest artwork every and all you can think about is how ugly it is how you hate it and want to set the office on fire. But —that angry beast that was just spawned— is being drowned in blue paint, but it just doesn't die and your mind putting all of its energy into fighting with itself and you can't think about shit.

Then after you get to talk to the doctor, it just gets worse, you're not looking at the artwork anymore, but you still can't focus on jack shit, because the walls are blue in the doctor's office as well, and he has all this tacky shit on the wall like a fucking thrift store exploded in it.

Then he asks you, "how are you doing?" And that's where they got you, before you went into the building, you thought that you were gonna go on a big rant about everything that pissed you off, but after all the distractions and the fucking blue paint, all you're thinking is, "Who am I? Where am I? Who are you?" Then you tell him that everything is great because there's still a small part of you that wants to escape from the madhouse that you're in but not until you get your pills.

So you say as little as possible about what's going on, because that's —all that comes to mind,— your psychiatrist is lazy and selfish! he doesn't want to hear about your problems, he wants to show you all the ugly shit he has.

So I thought of a solution, I wrote down on my phone before I even left for the fucking office, —every fucking thing I wanted to talk about— and man it was fucking awesome. He told me I was right, —the cunt rags who piss me of are wrong,— and that was just music to my ears, too bad I couldn't fucking enjoy it amongst the distracting imagery, so I found a solution. Now I'm gonna wear a pear of laser safety glasses, because they make everything look red and so his mind games aren't gonna work on me any longer.