2004-02-11 / 12:29 p.m.

I've been in enough therapist's offices to have swallowed the theory that talk makes better. So I write my journals and I write frantic, teary emails and I call people at all hours of the night; I wake Bryan up and demand that he listen to my nightmares, that he console me; I tell him the origin of the images, what reminds me of what and why it scares me. And they stop, for a dayor two. I get cocky, I don;t call the shrink for my in-take appointment and then I wake up, curled up ina little sweaty ball of nerves, crying into the pillow with these godawful goddamn pictures in my head... and talking doesn't do a goddamn thing. So... what? Electroshock? The headaches make me depressed, I can't work, can't read, can't write... and the headaches come from the stress of the dreams, which I can't stop. So what the fuck am I supposed to do?

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