Shock Treatment.

Out of the blue.

“I hate hate. Life sucks sucks. Damn! be damned. And shut up already.
“How do you get past that initial trauma? How do you frown it boldly in place as it passes you by, knowing it won’t be seen again? It happened, pick up the pieces, shove them into a new pocket, and walk on.
“Stop complaining; it won’t help. Tell me about your childhood, no whining. I fight against it full force, my bitter enemy and my nemesis. I urge you for you to do the same.
“You were abused as a child? Terrible!—Just terrible. I want to help you. I do, that’s my job. But I can’t unless you stop your clichéd bitterness. Not in this office.
“You can talk; I am listening. As long as you keep talking—no whining—that’s half the job, and I can help you. We are trying to beat this morbid trauma of yours, not nourish it.
“You are not going to get sympathy from me. No empathy. Are you crazy?—put myself in your shoes? With all this melancholy flying through the air along with your depressive voice, the prospect sounds miserable.
“No, that’s not what I’ll do. I won’t join you. I’m good at what I do; you will be helped.
“Your job sucks? You hate your boss? You don’t have to tell me that. I knew that the minute you walked past my door; that’s why you’re here. Hoping I would somehow push the magic button, snap my fingers, or give you sort of happy pill and it would all be better.
“That won’t happen.
“Try to relax. Breathe. Give me something to work with. Talk to me.
“Yes, I know, you were not expecting this indifference. Yes, I am blunt. Someone has to be. It’s for your sake.
“Put yourself in my shoes for a quick, enlightening second: On average, on a normal day, eight people visit this posh office of mine. They are chronic depressives, melancholy in person. They contain more suicidal thoughts in their stained mind than scars on their covered wrists.
“This job drains you more than Rome’s taxes. I would know. Dealing with the rest of the world’s hate, the lost hope and a thousand alibis—the reasons why they can’t, the reasons why they won’t, and why they shouldn’t.”
“You are not unique. You are not alone. Considering your competition, you are not the only lost and dirty raindrop, a flaw in a perfect world. You are far from it.”
“Look around you. This world still has colour left. It is drained and dim, it’s not as bright as it used to be, but it’s there.”
“You are going to leave this room, leave my office, go buy yourself a drink, and call it half full. Then, you are going get drunk. And smile.”
Done.
Irony: When the healer of a sick mind, mender of broken dreams, and a comforting ear amidst your chaotic week, is completely insane.
The bewildered man, his sharp black suit and disillusioned expression, make their way past the polished oak door; a state of stupor scurrying to catch up.
He stares at the secretary, she is carefully polishing her nails a bright, happy red.—a delicate task for a surgeon at work. Without looking up, sensing what she has already gotten used to, she emits a knowing smile.
A voice hurries its way past the door before it closes.
“I’ll see you again next week.”

"Let's forget about you and me. Fuck the System! Fuck you! Fuck me! Let's talk about Jesus, huh? Let's get drunk on the Spirit--it's the only way we can stand to live."
--Dad.

Gio.