I spoke to a psychologist friend of mine today.
Two things came out of the conversation.
The first is that it is hard on my soul to be ‘friends with a psychologist’, despite the fact that I have a weak but warm friendship with my first and favourite treating psychologist.

Being friends with a psychologist makes me feel ashamed of my mental illness. I suppose because all my life I have interacted with this person as a friend, and an equal in very naughty, and very fun escapades of youth. Now, there is a strange dynamic, where she will ask about my life, I will say that I have been ‘unwell’ this year, and she will ask something like ‘did you go to hospital?’

It was a little bit off, I feel. A little bit of drama mining, to my mind. But it also sets up this strange power dynamic, where she puts her ‘therapy’ hat on, and I feel like a patient. Except I worked this year when I was unwell. And I paid my mortgage, and I had the most lovely conversations with a number of people.

It just makes me feel sad. It makes me feel like I am less of a human being… It hurts.