I like to talk.

This is of NO surprise to anyone who has ever met me.  Seriously.  I like to talk.  A lot.  An AWFUL lot.  More than is often necessary.  In fact, most people I encounter - merely encounter - can tell you enough about me that it’s kinda verging on frightening.  Open book?  Ha!  I’m an open audio book, except with no stop, no pause, and no volume control.  Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk TALK TALK TALK TALKIETALKTALK.

So you’d think when I get in a funk like the one I’m currently in that the gates to never-ending verbal diarrhea would just burst open, right?  Right.

No.

Often, I think about finding a psychologist.  A psychiatrist.  Someone.  Someone to talk to.  Just…I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, per se.  Just someone to talk to who will listen to what I have to say and who won’t leave me feeling guilty because, hi, I’ve just made a horrible mess of that pretty white shirt with all the verbal spewage and here, let me just KEEP TALKING because it’s all about me, doncha know?

I’ve gone to “talk therapy” twice in my life.  The first time, I was in high school and deeply depressed.  The world was NOT my oyster and I was CERTAINLY not a pearl.  I was everybody’s annoying little grain of sand, and they weren’t very shy about letting me know.  Also I was running a little low on seratonin.  So I got plucked in a group therapy session with one girl who had a drug problem, one who had attempted suicide multiple times, and one who, if you asked me, should have been in the loony bin around The Bend.  I went.  I sat.  I listened.  I internally rolled my eyes.  I never talked.  My problems were nothing compared to theirs.  I was a dork, a nerd, a bit of an outcast with a few issues.  They had PROBLEMS.  My depression was largely chemical.  There’s was earned.

The second time, I started talking to the therapist - pardon me, the “Wellness Facilitator” - over the phone.  I had hit a bit of a rough patch at 22 and still in college and wanting so much out of life but being too lazy to go get it.  I talked to her for a few months before I finally met her in person.  She came to the door with bobbed black hair, a tight sweater, a leather mini-skirt, and black leather knee boots.  I immediately started looking for the whip because, hello, dominatrix.  Not that she was.  She was very nice.  But…well…we’ll just say that anytime you stop working with a “wellness facilitator” because SHE stops returning YOUR phone calls?  Yeah.  It’s not a good thing.  And that was just the tip of the boot.

So every time I consider talking to someone now, my mind immediately goes to worst case scenarios.  I’m SO gun shy.  I don’t want someone who’s going to screw my head up even further.  I just want someone to TALK to.  Someone who will sit there and let me spew all over them for an hour and then close their door and forget everything I’ve told them.  Someone who won’t tell me I’m insane or drug me up or tell me just to buck up and deal, but someone who will help me with a bit of REAL advice.  A bit of REAL encouragement.  Someone who will pull the honesty from me and not leave me feeling cheapened.  Someone who will let me tell them I’m a freak and a geek while believing with me the whole time that I’m not.

But until I overcome the fear and find someone, I will continue to shut down and have these weird moods and close myself up in my office with Very Loud Showtunes until the funk passes.