Tinnitus

On monday in Paris this is raining. As always. Except when the sky is grey. This time I feel quite lucky as the rain stopped just before I had to leave home.

On monday in Paris I'm not working. Like any other day. It started two years ago now. To be perfectly honest, a few monthes earlier.

On monday in Paris I'm going to see my psychiatrist. Morning habit. Oh well, when I say "morning" you have to understand it's not very early : I used to see him at half past eleven and now I chose twelve o'clock. "A totally free morning, this must be great !". Let's say it just lets me time to wake up, not enough time to tell the truth. Punctuality has never been of my strengths anyways.

This monday in Paris I went to see my psychiatrist. It all started one year and three monthes ago. this monday in Paris I told him once more, probably in a quite rude way - pardon my French -, that I felt my condition wasn't improving at all. I'm certainly quite a patient person but I was starting to get tired of it. This monday in Paris he told me once again that psychotherapy was the only way to get well. However he added a few minutes later that he wanted to stop it, because it wasn't usefull anymore. "No progress anymore, going on like this is a nonense".

So this it it ! He admits that this is a failure, and now gentleman, you have to cope with your condition ! You have so much to live and this is your choice to keep on fighting, assuming the defeat is obvious, or surrendering now.

This monday in Paris, after he repeated what I just said, I did the same with his words : I'm not going to stop this psychotherapy, and I'll continue this with him. But now I expect him to work a little harder, to help me finding the exit.

This monday in Paris that's also the first time since I was dead four years earlier that I manage to write some sentences that make sense. Healthy people would probably say I'm about to get well. One day, I'll probably say they were right.