Day 52 - The Asylum (Therapy Part 3)

I’ve been dumped...dumped by my Therapist.

I thought we were getting somewhere, her dress sense was improving, she started wearing her hair down. She seemed happier ...... but apparently there is nothing more she can do for me. She just takes all of my style tips and casts me aside because she doesn’t know how to deal with me – maybe this is how Gok Wan felt when he came out to his mum.

She wants to refer me to her colleague, a specialist. Apparently she is low level, I need high level therapy. It will take 6 weeks to get on the list but in the mean time she gives me a manual – as if my mind is some kind of car engine, ‘ if you feel suicidal refer to the manual’. Yes that’s the first thing I will fucking  do, thank god Hitler never had this Northamptonshire NHS PCT manual with the happy tree chart on it, or we would all be giving Nazi salutes – god she couldn’t even give me a manual from my own local authority.

She says I wasn’t improving – that my scores are above that of the average anxiety riddled mother. She scored me?? What was the criteria? If I’d had known I was being judged I would have made more of an effort with my mental health and definitely not spoken about Thomas – the imaginary African man that disciplines Summer.

I am more pissed off that without her and her bland room and wardrobe choices – so goes with it the 1 hr I have to myself each week. A time to talk about me, no work, no Summer, no part time dad. Just me, and her. And now I am on the street clutching a manual.  Bollocks.....

Then later my dad calls and what he tells me starts to put my life into perspective.  Dad is excited, he has found out the identity of his Dads biological parents (my granddad being adopted as a young boy). He has turned into one of those nutters that sit in libraries searching out their family tree and thumbing dusty census records, to replace a sex life he once had without Viagra, and now he has found her , my great grandma.... my great grandma....... who died in a lunatic asylum in Chelsea  age 37.

  Shit the bed, I think. What the fuck could have caused her to end up in the asylum!!! Why me?.... why am I descended from a nutter?,  I now have her Victorian unhinged genes. I am her but in the 21^st century. Did she kill herself? Did they crank up the electric shock therapy too high one day, and her bloomers caught alight.  I start blaming her for all my mental health issues...

‘but wait, it gets better’’ says dad.... ‘’your great granddad was a murderer’’.... OK shut up! This isn’t ‘who do you think you are’’ this is some bullshit right here. But no... turns out grandpops had a jealous streak and killed my grandmas lover. To avoid hanging he fled back to Italy. So much to digest.... but all I can think of is how I am descended from lunatics.

I look at Summer – she is seeing how far she can put her head in the dogs mouth whilst milking her nipples (the dogs nipples, not her own) she got the crazy gene alright .... and its all my fault.  For the last 5 years I blamed her craziness on the copious amounts of ganja me and part time dad used to smoke before I knew I was pregnant. But now part of me is relived that maybe this shit is hereditary and I couldn’t have prevented the way Summer is.

Maybe just maybe – my granddad was like Summer – he drove his mother to the asylum , unable to cope, his father in a paranoid jealous rage and left to cope with the monstrous child shoots his love rival..... maybe this will happen to me and part time dad, maybe Summer will push me so far that I am sectioned, and PT dad unable to cope with Summer alone and on discovering my lover (I can dream, and I still have time to acquire one ) shoots him and flees to Jamaica to avoid a 3 yr sentence for murder in the UK.

This is my family curse, every other generation shall sporn the devil child. I look at Summer, she has produced milk (from the dog, not from the fridge) I swear I see her eyes glow red.  I’m getting a head start and booking a room in the priory tomorrow, with or without a lover!