Oh my fucking god Rosenthal, I think you might need to prescribe me some Benadryl, because your fucking hippocratic bullshit is giving me allergic fits!
The whole fucking premise of making this stupid blog was, and I’m going to fucking quote you on this, “...to create a safe space where you can air your thoughts and express your feelings”. Could you please fucking tell me what part of “safe” includes bringing things up in therapy that I’ve fucking written here?
Let me fucking sum up my sleep-walking dreams for you:
I’m at the hospital again, waiting for dad to arrive so granddad can go to his appointment two floors down. Everything smells like death, even through the surgical mask. He’s lying there in the bed, literally wasting away. I’m sitting beside the bed, trying to read, when he grabs me. The chemo destroyed his fucking skin; it’s shedding and coming off in flakes. There’s barely any colour in it anymore. The covers fell back a bit when he reaches over, and I can see the fucking tumors, little angry lumps of rot pushing at the skin. They broke through his bones once it spread inside them. So here’s this dying, misshapen, literally shattered old man who used to be my granddad clutching my arm, but it hurts. He’s strong again, like he used to be, somehow. His fingertips are digging into my arm, and his face is twitching and a steady trickle of drool and blood is leaking from his mouth, but those yellowed eyes are fucking locked on me.
And the only difference between the dream and what actually happened is that in my dreams, he doesn’t then let out a shuddering gasp and collapse, letting me break free and run into the hallway. I have to sit there, frozen, until I wake up to find myself somewhere in the fucking house doing something stupid.
Ask me about my dreams again, read my blog again, and I’m going to cancel our fucking sessions.
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