Ad nauseum

My friend told me about her councillor Maurine the other day. We had this discussion on the pier. Sitting looking out at the water, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. It seems so stereotypical looking back, two barely legal teenagers sitting, maudlin drunk on vodka and self-pity, smoking and pseudo-philosophical. I know the idea’s been done ad nauseum and that thought in itself does make me feel slightly ill. Still, it happened. The memory is really rather hazy and my thoughts seem to be focused on the play of the artificial street lamps across the water and how it seemed to ripple with its gentle movements. Then again, hasn’t that idea been done to death? It’s at times like this that I feel I’ve never had an original thought in my life. Of course, I always think I have. In my own head I’m insightful and witty, misunderstood but brilliant. I think this but I know I’m not. It’s my own desire to believe I’m special that’s responsible, I can’t come accept that actually, I’m just like everyone else, I’m insignificant and my life will, ultimately, mean nothing. Still. Same for everyone. Which is really strange.1

Apparently she goes to see her once a week every week. Sits in a room and discusses all her thoughts. She’s supposed to be very understanding. Very nice and easy to talk to. She says Maurine tells her to write down what she’s feeling, a sort of catharsis I guess, she says it’s so she can purge herself of the negative thoughts she’s always carrying around, that if they’re on paper they’re distanced from her. She recommends it, says the counselling’s helped a lot. Then again, she is on serotonin reuptake inhibitors so who knows. That’s one thing I don’t know if I could do. Go to a stranger, instinctively trusting them because they have a PhD, I mean, good for them but what does that prove to me? And as much as they might smile and nod and ask me how I feel, and as much as it might appear to be completely genuine it doesn’t mean anything. People are very skilled at that, very adept at lying. Professionals are probably better. 2

As much as I might sneer I think there might be something in it. Not speaking to a stranger necessarily. That’s not for me. But I need change. I’m bored, unmotivated and reliving groundhog day. The days, the people, the places, the events continue ad nauseum. But it’s not like I just woke up one day and decided to be bored with everything; it was slower than that, more insidious, creeping and curling tendrils around the edges of my mind taking a constricting hold, suffocating everything. I don’t know, I’m not really sure what happened but the meaning seemed to have been drained out of things that I hadn’t previously been looking for a meaning in. I’m sick of it. It’s four in the morning, my bodies aching, eyes are squinting and the only thing that seems to ring clear in this drowsy fog is the resounding desire for change.3