Doctor, doctor...

No, not a joke, far from it.

So, I tell my doctor everything. Every last detail - relationship breakdown, shock redundancy, hopelessly inappropriate blurry boundaried love-type heartache, impending oral surgery, fear of same, historic suppressed grief and annual May meltdown, fruitless flathunting, flip-flopping moods, drenching night sweats, gritty jobhunting efforts, lack of money, fear of the homeless trap -the works... A real two kleenex effort of divulging my inner demons and pains...

-Her advice?

-Don't look for a job right now, and don't look for a place to stay either: stay where you are and keep taking the tablets (unless you are feeling suicidal... are you?No? Well, keep taking the tablets then....) Have I considered paying for some counselling? I should... It might, but only might, make me feel a bit better. Not much possibly, but a bit...

I could scream. I try to explain that she is asking for something nigh on impossible; staying still and doing nothing will not help one bit - I get accused of not wanting to help myself and of being obstructive. Ah yes - trying to find a place to stay and means to support myself without having to eat out of bins and sleep in a doorway is not wanting to help myself. Of course! Why didn't I see it before...

She reiterates her point in simpler words, for the hard of understanding...

I nod, grab my prescription and leave, grinding my (loose) teeth...

I wonder if she has even the faintest clue of how fucking stupid her advice seems? How condescending, how dangerous, even? I could weep - but I've done enough of that already...