My shrink is breaking up with me (LED still on)

Captain's Blog, Stardate 2128.1 

My therapist called to tell me that today would be our last session. I don't know that she was helping me all that much, as far as curing my depression goes. We barely scratched the surface of any real CBT or DBT work. Most of our sessions were just like this blog: me bitching about my issues with life and her providing an ear. 

Like my previous therapist, Shannon, Lindsay was just a person to talk to. I don't have very many of them in my life. The ones that I talk to on a telephone I can count on one hand. The ones I talk to in real life, I could count on an amputee's hand. Zero. 

I will miss Lindsay, as I miss anyone or anything that is suddenly and irrevocably removed from my life. I don't like it when things are over. Even things I complain about or people that bug me, when they are gone, leave a vacuum. 

What am I going to do with the random afternoons that we had scheduled for our appointments? What will I do when I'm done binge watching Dexter? Even my rituals of self-care, like soaking my eyelids to try to remediate my stye or chalazione, when they are done, leave a void. 

The "good old days" of cleaning Sharon's poop, surely, I don't miss them, do I? Yes, in some ways, I actually do. Because there was a purpose to my life. One that I may have despised at the time, but a purpose that kept me on my feet and my blood pumping through my veins. It may have been pumping fueled by anger, but it was keeping me alive. 

Now, what do I have? The caregiving package came with a whole person, who is no longer here. I would have loved to have kept the person and dropped the role of caregiver. It wasn't what I had signed up for. We were supposed to be partners. She became a job, and one that I resented. 

Now, I have no one and nothing to be responsible for besides myself and two cats. The guinea hens could just as easily flap around on someone else's property, squawking and pecking for bugs. 

I take care of myself, but I don't enjoy much satisfaction from doing the same things every day, my bare minimum of keeping myself from falling into utter decrepitation. I don't even enjoy the process of writing down my toxic thoughts, such as the ones I'm having right now. 

It used to give me a bit of satisfaction to feel I was relatable, or relating to people somehow. I felt the need to "get it all out," so to speak. Now, I feel there is less and less in there to even bother getting out. Or it is just stagnant and won't flow out, crusting up like clogged arteries. Blah, blah, blah. 

I've quit Facebook, my shrink has quit me, and I've quit shaving out of protest. I mean, who cares, right? Who honestly gives one goddamn fuck? 

Kirk, out.