Reading a debunking of psychotherapy as fabric of illusions. A misunderstanding. A glitch. Illusions are a psychotherapeutic fabric. A psychosomatic/////////cutting///////////somatic////////////////somatic///////////////soma/////////////////////a rendering of flesh wrapped warm around a wound of insubstantiality. I took the knife to my arm and sliced through to see the blood and I burned the skin with the cigarette ends so I could be sure I was there and in the first place it was about teaching a lesson and///////////////////somatic///////////////////////////somatisation<<<<<<<<<<what does this word mean?

“What should any of us say to our loved ones who ask for direction?”

not loved ones. strangers. i make my money this way. rubbing up effortless against the misery of others. who does this? chooses this? when i grow up I want to stand and watch the others collapse and  inject themselves with adulterated heroin and I want pour out their methadone and i want to measure the measures [how dilated are you’re eyes///////////////////piloerection and subjective reports of yes yes yes yes I need the fucking shit so put it in me] and I ask about suicide and I ask about rape and I listen about torture and sometimes it’s amazing how detached and insulated you are and other days you want to cry or hold someone or tear cut the skin of the world and have it bleed its blood all into our mouths and faces like a mother bird’s regurgitation  except there is no blood and nothing under its skin. the world is as skin deep. who plugs themselves willingly into this and what essential or platonic psychopathology patterns the pattern of what is felt as need desire need desire satisfaction enjoyment need desire///////////////////////somatomechanical//////////////////////////////and maybe the answer is that it isn’t him or her in front of me with the benzodiazipine pushing the neuronal-behavioural repetitions commonly known as whatever their name is and however often their father beat them mother ignored them brother died in their arms in a knife attack and their face is marked with the slash wounds but its shrugged off and the fear of the bastards she stole the money from the heroin from the cocaine from gets passed off chalked up marked down out of her own mouth as paranoia because we’ve got you now in our little system and you’ll speak our language and spin out wheels so we can feel very important and as if we’ve got the first fucking//////////////////somatosensory cortex///////////////////////hold on what is and isn’t going on around here.

i think i know my answer and you know yours and we experience ourselves swaying slightly seasick at the thought of it and yes the meat suffers and somehow electrochemical pulsation/activation/synchronisation and the organization of the patterns of the connections of the little lumps of protein that hold it together fit it together build it up like soft wet edible lego brick you can’t even see are able to feeeeeeeeeeeeeeel that suffering and screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam out about that suffering and i am the one of those ones who hears that scream and instead of doing the sane thing doesn’t turn away but approaches and gets down to the floor and look you in the eye and say yes yes yes the meat suffers and we call this empathy or compassion or the moral senti///////////ment and it is on its way out and its on its way to the graveyard of history as elimination jumps from the books into the happy delirium of our technologies…………………i bear witness…i cry with….i care about…..i…i…..i…….i…..

is it that simple? your suffering is my fix? it hits me somewhere. makes me feel real good because i’m such a fucking hero.

it isn’t an abstract question.  i sit there. on the other side of the room. on the other side of the phone. across facebook. what do i say? sometimes you are crying when you call/come in. it’s harder on the phone. its harder when there are no faces and no gestures. no touching.

relay/reconstruction:

yes. it’s shit. life is shit. it’s horrible and its painful and it  ends and then its nothing. i won’t sugar coat it for you because you’ve told me you want to die. i can’t offer you something to live for. the truth is there isn’t anything.

and ten minutes later

you’ve got kids? shit..how old are they?

and thirty minutes later

mate, i told her the sex was boring in front of everyone. i swear to god she hated me. don’t drink man. it’s evil.

the voice on the other end of the phone is laughing now.

i am a junkie. i’m a pain-junkie. a misery-junkie. i’m a sadness-junkie. i shoot-up your corroded hopes and cook up in your resentments.

what can i tell you about why you shouldn’t die?

sometimes i am reduced to combative methodologies: identify an enemy: don’t give them the fucking satisfaction. but the ultimate enemy is existence and existence don’t give a fuck don’t get high off your pain or low from your happiness don’t give a fuck what happens as long as something is going on.

maybe this is how i should answer then: don’t kill yourself. i can’t go with you. i’m not ready. i’m still to attached to this place. and i need one more hit. i’m chasing the oblivion of heroism. if you survive i survive- although its not like you the service user is ever going to run out as long as babies keep getting blasted out the great vast nothing into this open asylum. i should answer like this: don’t leave….i’m lonely…and can’t leave on my own.

this is the first principle of negative psychotherapy: i’m not  here and neither are you and the me that isn’t here isn’t doing this for isn’t here you.