...and that train keeps rolling...
Four years deep and not a soul to trust. In hindsight, it's pretty fucking absurd to think that I'd have any other expectation from wittingly signing up to be around nothing but budding clinical psychologists for four years. But I have grown in this time as well. Old habits, once endorsed with the rhyme and reason reserved for sacraments, now to me appear as developmentally appropriate as drinking a Delaware Punch. The product of my own interpersonal laziness on my environment has been made abundantly clear, time and time again. There is no such thing as a closed system, and yet my natural instinct is to close my eyes and pretend that I am living in one. I've become extremely efficient at doing this. Rather than community, the people in my life appear to me as smiling facades: walking agendas hidden from plain sight by more benign pretensions. And yet, some part of me acknowledges that once time has passed and memories fade, I'll remember some of them as much more than that. As it was, so shall it be, or something like that. Over the rest of my years, how many of these therapy masks will I actually encounter again? How many will I actually make an effort to keep in touch with, or even visit if some reason comes up to make it easy? If life as it stands today is any indication, the most statistically sound guess would be 0. I've made some incredibly shitty decisions in my life, certainly, but by no means am I a monster. So why the hell am I so frightening to everyone out here?