I'm pathetic

Its never ending. No matter how much I confront and question you lie and deny, and insist that everything I say is proof that I'm mentally ill, which I suppose is the reason you're secretly drugging my food anyway. I'm the only one its secret from, clearly.

Here's the thing that's been bothering me lately. You weren't trying to convince me by making that phone call the other day, and as I look back it seemed before that your performances weren't meant for me. Who are you doing this act for? Suddenly you're too frail to watch the Pianist without covering your eyes. The first time we watched it you didn't have any problem, but last week you couldn't take it. Who are these performances for? They're not for me. You were a military nurse during Viet Nam. I know that you're not faint of heart. I can remember you telling stories of treating soldiers who had been burned with phosperous bombs. Must have been ugly and bloody, much more so than the Pianist. Yet, suddenly my pain and anguish is the only sort you seem to be able to witness without flinching.

The shrink keeps calling saying he's returning my call. Am I supposed to believe that I am asking for help without knowing it?

In the meantime I'm still the worst person that anyone has ever met on or offline, and considered completely incompetent in every respect. Since our last confrontation I all but pass out between ten and midnight and my bowels have become as solid as potters clay. I can still feel the drugs in the food and the toothpaste. I can actually taste the drugs in the toothpaste. That and the fact that you never use it anymore is a pretty big tip off. Where are you keeping your toothpaste?

You know we could resolve the whole thing by just putting all the cards on the table. For whatever reason you don't want to do that. What possible reason could you have for wanting me to not be able to work, or go out? I guess I'm just too pathetic.