A few weeks ago I went to see a psychiatrist.

We talked about how I was feeling. I really wanted to hit him in the face when he asked that. I didnīt do that. I regret that now. No, I replied politely and asked him if he thought I came there because he is such a nice guy, and the chairs are really comfortable. He didnīt say anything to that. He just smiled and I smiled back.

I shouldnīt have done that

Then he asked me if I did any kind of drugs. I asked him if he had any, and if he thought it would help if I took some. He didnīt think that was funny. But I did. Then he asked me what I thought the problem was. I told him my problem was that people asked too many questions. Then he asked me why. I gave up on everything at that point. I told him that.

I shouldnīt have done that.

He told me I had a depression. That made me depressed. Then he told me to take some pills and fill out a form. That confirmed the reason I went there. Life sucks. Then I went home and felt ackward. I decided to call a friend. My friend picked the phone up. I told him that the psychiatrist had told me I was depressed.

I shouldnīt have done that.

My friend asked me alot of questions. I answered his questions. Then he went neurotic on me, and treated me like a disease which needed to be cured. Then I told him to go fuck himself. I never talked to that friend again. He told my other friends. They told their friends who told their .. Nobody wants to talk to me now. I told my psychiatrist that last week. He told me that my depression was getting worse. Then he gave me some stronger pills, and alot of new forms to fill out.

I shouldnīt have done that.

I took the pills and filled out the forms. Then my psychiatrist put me in this psychiatric ward iīm in today. The walls are white, and the straps are tight. I like it here. They say iīm going to be here for a long time. I donīt mind. The nurses have nice tits, and they donīt ask questions.

Thatīs what I did.

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