Twenty minutes.

I got a new shrink, today. Like, a real one, with a PhD and everything. No offense to my former shrink, but I think this fellow is far more qualified. It went pretty much how any first appointment with a new shrink goes. Hi, how are you, nice weather we're having, what meds are you on, are you a danger to yourself or others? Well, not exactly like that, but you know what I mean. He told me I should start journaling again. Essentially, he told me to free-write. So, my next few entries will probably be short and sweet, or not. He doesn't know me, how my mind bleeds all over the page. For that reason, I am going to limit myself to twenty minutes this first time. Okay, and... go.

I'm a little concerned that if he did read some of my past entries, I'd finally get the dreaded "schizophrenic" diagnosis I've always feared, though why I fear it is up for debate. Perhaps it's because you don't hear about many functioning schizophrenics making it in the world, doing normal stuff like having jobs and going to the mall and being allowed near children and animals. And that would really suck for me, because, when I get better, if I ever do, I mean, which is up to me, of course, I would very much like to work in a veterinary office, at least as a volunteer. So I guess you could say the point of this rambling paragraph is that, finally faced with a real psychologist, and not a glorified baby-sitter (sorry, former shrink), I might acquire a diagnosis that hinders rather than helps me.

Do I, personally, care if I'm schizophrenic or not? No, not really. It's like any other label. Take it, leave it, write it on a name tag. It's just a descriptive word applied to, in this case, the state of my mental health. I fear what others might think of the diagnosis. I fear it will further limit what I am able to do with my life, not that I'm doing much with it now. And this is why I think I might be schizophrenic: because I "hear" my gods. And I am not sure whether the way I hear them counts as some sort of auditory hallucination, or whether it's more like a writer of fiction listening to the voice of their muse, but it's something that grounds me, either way. If I can't hear them, I feel lost. I don't fear they've abandoned me, or anything like that. I don't worry I've angered them and made them go away or that I'm being punished. It's just that my definition of "hell" (the Christian idea of the place, not the Norse goddess of the dead) is not to be able to hear or feel the divine in some way. It's to be so wrapped up in my own pain and worry that I lose access to the spiritual.

I was surprised that I was not asked the usual question that I have seen on every intake form from my shrink to my pain management doctor: "What are your goals regarding your care?" GOALS! That's what I'd like! Goals! Goals beyond "Get up. Take a shower. Get dressed. Eat food. Occupy self." Lather, rinse, repeat. The doc asked me today if I was an artist. Well, I'd like to think so. At least I used to be. Where did it all go? I want it back, and better than I've had it before. I want it back on a regular basis, not in spurts between varying states of unwellness. And then? And then I want respect. Recognition for something I've done, beyond, "Good job, you've made it almost to middle age without killing someone, and given your history, well..."