Who are they?
I have no idea. I blurted it out at 3 in the medicated morning, proclaiming they were central to a conceptual prog-rock opera called “Where The Mushrooms Grow”. There would be lots of delay and echo. Eric was cracking up in bed next to me. No, we never composed this thing, though we have composed a Friday the 13th score based around a wounded doll’s fever-delirium, but more about that later.
I’m supposed to “graduate” from my program, move on to a treatment center with less metal detectors, piss tests, and overt poverty bias. The first one my counselor suggested, close by and with art therapy, called me this morning with preliminary questions. The doctor I spoke with squeamishly decided it was not the right program for me, pretty much after I disclosed my self-harm history. I’d had a premonition it wouldn’t work out, or more likely, a personal bias since the center’s address was on 5th Avenue (not the really snotty part and they do accept Medicaid but still…)
I was left wondering though if someone who works in mental healthcare is that put off by some cutting, are they in the wrong line of work?