From yesterday:


Yet another appointment cancelled at the last minute.  I even made sure of it being scheduled (due to them "forgetting" to note it down and then cancelling and rescheduling on me repeatedly the last time) with Psychologist herself and she herself said it was already scheduled for January 7th at 11AM; she made note of no problems being with that day and time.  I call them up this morning (after waking up early, tired and depressed as always, to wash my hair) to make sure.  Different day, same old crap.


Me:  "I'm calling to see if my appointment is still on for today."


Receptionist:  "Your name?"


Me:  "Rachel H."


Her:  *random mumbling and rustling*  "Let me just check…"  *pause and more rustling*  "There should have been a letter…"


Me:  *rolling eyes*  Of course.


Her:  "I'm glad you called."


Me:  "Uh-huh."  I saw this coming a mile away.


Her:  "Psychologist isn't going to be in today…I try not to reschedule you on Thursdays…"


Me:  WTF??  "Well, the problem is, Thursdays are the only day I have a ride there."  I've only been telling you guys this for frigging MONTHS.


Her:  "Well, if you have an appointment on a Thursday, chances are it will end up cancelled."  *rustling noises*  "We can get you in on the 28th."


Me:  Wow, like a month from now, and maybe like a month and a half or two months since I've last seen somebody I'm supposed to see every two weeks.  How lovely.  "Okay.  Thank you."  Hang up, tell my mother she might need to talk to her boss to ask about getting a different day of the week off because heaven forbid I should be able to get therapy on the only day I have a frigging RIDE there.  Psychologist never, ever made mention of Thursday being a bad day…in fact, as my mother angrily informed me, the only reason her day off from work changed from Tuesday to Wednesday and then to Thursday was because of all the cancellations I kept getting on THOSE days.  She can't get any other day off.  Her hours aren't flexible.  Apparently my psychologist's hours aren't, either.


The last appointment ran late, I had so much I needed to talk about, and I still didn't manage to go over it all.  By the time I finally get in to see her, so much time has elapsed between sessions that I never get to go over all the important things I really need to discuss.  I only ever have time to talk about this stupid bladder thing, never mind anything good that might have happened, no matter how infrequent or small.  Not to mention all this crap regarding so-called "friends" on the Internet and whatnot.  By the time she's done questioning me about my bladder, it's time to leave, then I'm lucky to see her again any time within a month.


There's no affordable public transport to get me there on a moment's notice (due to them cancelling on me with no prior warning–I'm supposed to give them 24 hours' notice), and nobody else, no family, no friends, to drive me there.  Looks like yet another message from God/life/whatever that I'm just meant to be stuck here with nobody to talk/connect/reach out to.  Guess I should take the frigging hint already, I can't even talk to somebody when they're PAID to listen.


No big surprise there.  Like I said, different day, same old crap.




It took me numerous tries just to get the blog page here loaded.  Seems like a trivial thing, but to me it was yet another sign.  Can't even post something anonymously on some site where nobody even knows/gives a flip about me.  I'm just not meant to have any sort of meaningful human contact.


The small thought that, at least I could call Psychologist on the phone and talk for a few minutes when I really needed to, she even said so herself, used to bring me comfort, but with cancellation after cancellation, and now finding out that the one day I can actually go see her is the day I'm least likely to be able to do so, crushes that thought.  Part of me knows it's nobody's fault, but how can I not grow resentful?  The one last person I had left to talk to and I never even get to see her.  She, too, is just too busy.  I always fall through the cracks of other people's too-busy lives.  The friends crap I mentioned above?  It's all the people who contact me online and off (once in a while I contact somebody, but I've given up on that, now it's people who contact me first), all cheerful to get in touch, and then a moment later are suddenly too busy to correspond in any way and then lose touch.  I don't see why they keep bothering me, keep getting my hopes up that MAYBE here's somebody who'll care.  None of them ever do.  Why do they even bother me if they'll never have the time for me.  I never bothered them.  If somebody can't make any sort of meaningful communication with me then I just want them to leave me alone.  Even the only real friend I ever had, who I lost touch with years ago–the only person who ever cared about my writing–got back in touch with me only to immediately say she was busy and lose interest.  She hasn't even noticed I haven't replied to her.  That's how important our friendship was to her, I guess.  And she's just one of many, especially recently–life just piles them atop me, one after another, rejection after rejection.  Why did she even bother me?  Why do any of them?


I can't call a crisis help line because nobody there knows my history–I can hardly spend hours talking to some total stranger, going over all the events, all the people who have let me down, that led to what I am today.  All I had was my psychologist, and now I feel like I shouldn't even bother since she has no time for me either.  Nobody does.  All I can do is post in stupid anonymous blogs since I have no friends or family or even therapists to talk to.  That's how meaningful my life is.  All I do anymore is sit alone crying all day, just like before I got into therapy…some big improvement, huh?…watching the wild birds eat because giving them food is the last "meaningful" thing I have in life.  Even they would be fine without me.  The whole world would.  Better, in fact.  For instance I wouldn't bother my mother with having to drive me places or my psychologist with having to listen to me.  I wouldn't bother anybody.  Just existing is an imposition.  I haven't written in weeks, if not months, not that it matters.  Nobody has ever cared for or will ever care for any of my stories for more than two minutes.  People always tell me how great my writing is, but none of them maintain interest in it for more than the blink of an eye, so that shows how "great" it truly is.  I think of all the years of effort I've put into improving myself and my work, as well as into reaching out to others, trying to be friends, to make SOME tiny difference to somebody besides myself, and all I can do is hate myself because despite all that I haven't done a thing.  Nothing that matters to anyone else, at least.  All that trying to make friends and be a good person has taught me is to hate myself because surely I must be a bad person if nobody will ever care about me.  Every morning I wish I just would not wake up, but I keep doing so.  I don't understand why.  My mother's told me before that I seem to enjoy making others miserable.  That's the only reason I can find for my existence.  I don't enjoy it, but my only point in existing seems to be to make others miserable.  Seeing as I don't enjoy it, and it serves nobody else any use, why then do I keep waking up every day?  Why can't I just stay asleep forever?  Even that's too much to ask?


Really pathetic that all I have is a stupid blog to say this all in.  Everybody else has somebody, at least one person, but I can't even have a family member or one friend or even a therapist to listen to me.  If that's not the ultimate sign then I don't know what is.  Will this even post properly or will that be denied me too?


And just like with my psychologist all of this isn't even a tiny fraction of it.  I would be writing forever, trying to remember all the times I've slipped through the cracks.  After all, every single person I've ever reached out to, and even every single person who's ever reached out to me, quickly showed me how little I matter.



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