Psychotherapy 9: Got Any Spare Change?

This week my therapist will go by: He

I could barely string a sentence together today. I can barely remember anything we talked about. I suppose that’s because we barely spoke about anything. So instead, here’s some rambling, not-even-close-to-one-one-hundredth-baked philosophy.

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Psychotherapising 7 and The Time I Called Some Austrian Policemen “Nazi Pig Fuckers”

This week my therapist will go by: Wan Kin

Previously on, The Psychotherapising of Alexander:

  • I don’t really care about anything and not because I think it makes me interesting. I just don’t. I don’t understand why. I suppose I’d like to find out.
  • Sometimes I’m consumed by an irrational rage that ends with me essentially regaining consciousness at the end of a trail of destruction.
  • Usually I can contain the aforementioned rage.

Fade out. Whoooooooosh. Fade in.

Okay. The title of this post is horrendous clickbait. But look. I’m awful. So go fuck yourself. No you’re alright. Please stay. Please.

Please.

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The Fifth and Sixth Psychotherapising of Alexander: My Person Suit

These weeks my therapist will go by: Jennifer

You’ns who regularly read this blog may have noticed there wasn’t an entry last week. That’s because I went to Suffolk to build my grandmother a new PC. She paid me. I won’t pretend I did it out of the goodness of my own heart. As we all know, I’m a piece of shit.

Anyway, I was a combination of away (0.5%), busy (0.5%) and lazy (99%). That’s why there was nowt. Luckily for you, I made notes of what happened in last week’s session. So today I present a double, back to back special of… you get the idea. It’s two posts in one. It’s 300-ish words extra. Quit while you’re ahead. This is going to get dark and probably tedious.

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Alexander Goes to Psychotherapy: The Third

Today my therapist will be known as: Vincenzo

I’ve been sitting on this post for a few days. There’s something about it that seems mean spirited and petty. But on reflection, I realise these are things that have contributed to me and my depression in someway. Just like everything I’ve spoken about in my previous posts. Examined individually, they’re relatively minor incidents. But everything I’ve written about so far and everything I’ll write about in the future are parts of a larger picture.
I know there are people out there whose childhoods make mine look like a hedonist’s wet dream. People who suffered physical and sexual abuse. Who never had the privileges I had. But that knowledge doesn’t suddenly make me all better. Their suffering doesn’t cancel out my own. And acknowledging that I have problems doesn’t mean I don’t feel sympathy for them. If you’re in a similar position, you should try to remember that.

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Alexander Goes to Psychotherapy: The Second

I hate writing “my therapist”. So from now on at the beginning of each entry I shall be picking a new, probably silly-to-the-anglo-saxon-ear name for him.

Today my therapist will be known as: Klug

Stupid stupid stupid. This isn’t going to be very long, because my session was well over 100 hours ago and I can barely remember a thing. Maybe it’ll come back as I write. But I shall not make such a stupid mistake again. I shall not.

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What to do if you can’t stop telling yourself that you’re a piece of shit (or if you feel broken inside)

If you think that you’re about to kill yourself in the next few minutes or hours. If you’re about to do that. You’re probably not well. Apparently, healthy people don’t do that kind of thing. I know, right?

You are completely allowed to call an ambulance. There are people at A&E/the ER who go through loads of training to help people like us who know we’re pieces of shit. It doesn’t matter if you don’t deserve it. They’ll help you anyway. The suckers. 999 or 911. Do it.

If you can’t face an ambulance and you’re in the UK, call The Samaritans: 0845 790 9090

If you can’t face an ambulance and you’re in the USA, call The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

If you’re somewhere that isn’t the UK or USA and can’t face an ambulance, click this link to find your country’s very own suicide prevention line.

And if you can’t do any of those things. It’s okay. I wouldn’t. But it might help you. Try and tell someone. You can always wait a bit and kill yourself tomorrow.


I’ve been sent a number of messages from people who told me they’d been struggling with mental health problems, or the crushing hopelessness that is life, and either felt let down by the help they’d been offered and received. Or hadn’t tried to get help for fear of not being believed. I’ve fallen into both of those categories. I’m by no means an expert, but I have experienced them. I know it’s piss.

I also have experience navigating the workings of the NHS and the private medical sector because I’ve worked in both of them. My NHS job was literally helping people navigate it so they could get the best care as quickly as possible. Just to be clear, I’m not a clinician or a therapist. But I know how this shit works. And even though my experience is entirely in the UK, the steps are more-or-less the same worldwide.

I won’t pretend to know why you feel bad about yourself or what kind of bad you feel or don’t feel. My experiences have differed from others I’ve read or heard about. I’m sure there are similarities with someone, somewhere. Probably. I’m not special. You’re not either.

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