I got a surprising call a midnight ago. I didn’t recognize the number,
ergo I didn’t pick it up. The vm was from my therapist. At first, I
couldn’t tell who it was and it didn’t help she was talking in
Psych-code  – you know, that language they use when leaving messages so
no one can tell it’s a psychiatrist or psychologist leaving a message.
Really sly…. uh-huh….
“Hey Sarah, this is Jaz, just wanted to
see how everything’s going…. haven’t seen you in a while…. but if
um, you want to come in… um, just to talk….. just call and we can
work something out…. and if you don’t want to come in for a while,
and decide you do want to come in… then …
wecanreopenyourchart…..ok….. here’s the number….”
She’s
concerned (?) but I don’t really know why. I mean, she hasn’t seen me
in almost a year, but I *did* go to the psychiatrist to get meds until
just shortly ago. Seroiusly, she was the one who dumped me after I told
her about killing those chicks when I was like 3. Ok, maybe not dumped,
but I did notice that she never noticed how I never made an appointment
with her after that. And it’s not like I did it on purpose or anything;
I thought I was feeding them for fuck’s sake!

This morning, I
considered going back and getting back on meds. It would be so easy to
disappear in that fog. But it would be the definite death of a part of
me. Could I really give that up? That part of me that’s too aware, too
emotive, too empathic; that part that doesn’t float through life but
rides white waters like a dark-eyed shark, gnashing teeth in
frustration and locking jaws around the poignant flashes of mortality.

Death is easy.
Living is hard.

---

Saw Beau yesterday when i was picking some books up. Cats have gotten fatter.
Otherwise, everything was the same.
I guess I’ve changed.