Dr. This and Dr. That and Dr Whatist who’s just passing and thought he’s pop in as well. Burning in a hot tunnel of dismay, my humiliation complete as I have nothing to say about my “illness” which amounts to knowing that there’s no point in anything because I’m going to die. Dr This writes it down and Dr That attempts a sympathetic murmur. Watching me, judging me, smelling the crippling failure oozing from my skin, my desperation clawing and all-consuming panic drenching me as I gape in horror at the world and wonder why everyone is smiling and looking at me with secret knowledge of my aching shame.
Shame, shame, shame. Drown in your fucking shame.
Inscrutable doctors, sensible doctors, way-out doctors, doctors you’d think were fucking patients if you weren’t shown proof otherwise, ask the same questions, put words in my mouth, offer chemical cures and cover each other’s arses until I want to scream for you, the only doctor who ever touched me voluntarily, who looked me in the eye, who laughed at my humor, who lied and said it was nice to see me.
I trusted you, I loved you, and it’s not losing you that hurts me, but your bare-faced fucking falsehoods that masquerade as medical notes.
And while I was believing that you were different and that you maybe even felt the distress that sometimes flickered across your face, you were covering your arse too. Like every other stupid mortal cunt.
To my mind that’s betrayal. Nothing can extinguish my anger. And nothing can restore my faith. This is not a world in which I wish to live.