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Internet Therapy Is the Worst

Nobody puts “depressed adult” down on those elementary-school sheets where you state your life’s dreams and aspirations. That seems obvious, but lately I’ve been thinking about it. Kinda, what would third grade me have thought about mid-40s me? (Young me, the one riding that banana seat bike around with cap-popping rifle, Army helmet and paratrooper rucksack, would have fired a “bullet” into the future, aiming to kill.) It’s this kind of thinking that we do. The thousands of us, in the U.S. alone, who live without joy or purpose or hope.

I don’t have gray days, I just have days. I don’t fear anything, because there is no escape from fear anymore, so the constant fearful state just becomes me. Every time I cross a street I imagine that truck or speeding car hitting me. It’s almost soothing to think there would be no tomorrow. You live in pain every day, you just want it to stop. Every second of every day is a scream, a howl, an agony.

I look at pictures of me when I was a kid, and I feel sorry for that kid. He doesn’t know what’s coming. And he wouldn’t want to know.


Sometimes a stranger can smile and say hello or thank you and you realize it’s not everyone on the planet you hope would disappear or shut the fuck up. Little things mean a lot. (Big things don’t happen anymore.)

But here’s a thing that I, for one, have learned by now: the Internet won’t save you, heal you or do anything about your malaise. Not that it ever promised to, but you know how we sometimes think about the Internet, these weird little aspirations we have for it.

I had a great week on Myspace.

My tweets are kicking ass right now!

I’ve made a zillion new friends on Facebook.

There’s no limit to how many times I can watch Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech on YouTube.

I’ve had epiphanies just from Google searches. Random searches. Other times, it’s more specific exchanges that I have. Recently I read a ton of Allen Ginsberg on a website and thought it had changed my life. That stuff usually lasts for an hour or two. I used to get drunk all the time because that lasted longer. Fun fact: you can kill yourself with drinking too much.


Also my old therapist died recently. That sucks. More for him than me, but I hate it all the same. I’m one of those people who lies to shrinks. I like to think it makes me look better, less crazy. This could be something I learned from old Richard Lewis routines. But I don’t’ think so. It seems to just come from vanity, foolishness, perhaps a not-altogether-rounded-out personality.

So, yeah, that’s why I’ve decided to tell a little bit of the truth here. At least a little. Dr. M_____ maybe would be a little proud. He said, way back when, that it doesn’t matter where you get some relief or growth from. (He smiled a little when I told him I had made a Myspace profile.) As long as you get it.

Usually this only lasts for a few months. There have been times when it’s gone on for a year or more. But I’m looking forward to fall. I hate summertime. This all seemed to kick in to full speed (negatively capability speaking) when June rolled around. So, suck it, summer months. Fall is coming.

I’ve got an appointment this week to talk to a counselor of sorts. I realized it was time. You get to know the signals real well. You know, like when you stop caring that you don’t care. That’s a big one.


I hope to get back to the point soon where I can see a photo of little me and say, There’s a kid with a future. Doesn’t have to be a bright future. Just not so, you know …