Poor shrink

     So, I'm not sure what it is about me, but I have a tendency to upset my shrinks. I'm never quite sure why that is; my assumption is that, with as many people as they end up seeing, surely they shouldn't be surprised by what I tell them. Without fail, though, I manage to say things that make them tear up and look like the want to hug me.

     Lo and behold, apparently my current shrink is no different. I had my appointment with her this morning, and she definitely got the "let me hug you" look. If I can pick up on that kind of look, it should tell you how obvious it is.

     She was frustrated that it seems like I don't trust her. Obviously, if she's supposed to help me, me being able to open up to her is paramount. She finally realized that it isn't that I don't trust her; I mean, Christ, I've only seen her 4 times and she already knows more about me than any other shrink I've seen. What I finally made her realize, though, is there's obviously limits to what I can tell her because she's a mandated reporter. If I actually confirm with her that I'm actively suicidal and have a plan, rather than just suicidal ideation, that is then legally out of her hands. That's not her fault, it's just a fact of her profession. Needless to say, between telling her that and refusing to answer specific questions, I now have to email her daily to tell her I'm still breathing. Whoops.

     On the gallows humour side of things, though, I'm not sure if she was impressed or horrified when I corrected her that modern cars don't produce the right exhaust toxins to kill someone like they used to.