That's what my therapist calls it. "When I think about you, Miss Banshee, I think of apathy. You're in a rut, a bad place in your brain that sucks out all the joy and happiness that others are lucky enough to feel. We just haven't gotten the medications right, but we will, I promise, we're going to get those emotional muscles working again, the ones that make you smile and laugh and enjoy and CARE about things. We're gonna get it right, I promise."
That's what she says to me. She's a good egg, my shrink. She sits there every week and I stare at her for a while until she tosses me a stress ball and I get my nervous hands going. That's when I start to talk. Sometimes I'm wicked exciteable, and sometimes I am so…Atrophied. Like my emotions have been on such hyperoverload my whole life that they're just burnt out, like the engine of an old car. The sparkplugs aren't working, none of the emotions are WORKING, dammit, and sometimes I get so angry and I have no idea why and sometimes I think about something that happened 20 years ago and it's like it happened yesterday and sometimes I just sit there with my stress ball and my therapist promises me that we're going to figure it out.
Do you hug your therapist? I do.
So that's what I've been doing. Being apathetic. I sleep most days, all day and all night. I take my fistfuls of medication like I'm supposed to, and I wait.
I wait to care again. About something. Anything.
She promised we're going to figure it out, and I have to believe her.