I understand, really I do ·
15 December 05

Those were the sentiments expressed by my profound psychologist on our first session together. They’re done with assessing me and seeing what I need, and I’ve been thrown to the new wolves in town called the Early Intervention Team who assess risk and make recommendations and such in this regard.

We went over old ground, but the psychologist, Jay, did what psychologists do, and “hmm” and “uh huh”’d a lot of the time, nodding in synchronisation with the clock on the wall which I stared at more than once.

She explained how I would be seeing her for the next six months, and although I may leave thinking nothing has changed, it will help her to make recommendations on what to do. The first task in hand for the day was to set goals. I felt like a child being mentored because I’m “special”. Perhaps I didn’t have the wheels to go with my “special” status, but I felt their presence and more than once hoped to ride out of there, twiddling the joystick to get around the tight corners of the rooms.

We ended the session on a lot of cheese, she explaining how this was the first step to recovery

She made herself at home pretty quickly and was resting her head on her arm, with the chair rest for support, her legs tucked beneath her ass like she was attending a sleep over, and I had brought the popcorn. Except we weren’t going to watch a movie, but discuss why I’m a bad, bad boy.

Jay wasn’t that bad, to be fair, but she freaked me out with her little scribbles and drawings of me, my family, situation. Sometimes she’d write something down, and in a condescending voice tell me she was writing something down, but if I ever want to see what she’s writing I could ask her. I stared at her chest and zoned out for a few minutes. They were pretty firm.

Goals was the aim for the day, and I had to come up with three goals. She, or possibly we, decided that I need a happy medium rather than the nothingness to extremes that I endeavour to achieve. I told her I couldn’t find a happy medium, so she decided that it should be a possible goal.

Perhaps I didn’t have the wheels to go with my “special” status, but I felt their presence and more than once hoped to ride out

The other goals included me moving out. For this I think I might get some decent help, but I have to decide where I want to move. It’s not a case of I get what I want, but I think I have a fair chance, and they may even help with getting my own flat, rather than just a room since I’m considered a danger/risk to others. I would probably insist on a flat rather than a room simply because I could hide more bodies in a flat.

I can’t remember what my second goal was, but it might have been employment. To get back into work, and do a job, without scaring the shit out of my employer or scaring them into thinking I could sneak up behind them and slit their soft, tender throats.

We ended the session on a lot of cheese, she explaining how this was the first step to recovery and will minimise the chances of a relapse; how I’ve been strong to come this far into the recovery and asking for help. The usual psychological shizzle me whizzle. In the end she was right, and I did feel as though I hadn’t gotten anywhere with the programme, but I’m willing to give things a shot.