Books and Scheduling Madness


I tried to read two books recently about child sexual abuse and couldn’t stomach either of them. One mentioned religion and God about a dozen times per page. The other promoted faulty science and treated the witch-hunts of the 1980s like they were legit. So I decided neither book was for me. I was glad that I had just borrowed them from the library, instead of actually going out and purchasing them, because I really hate to waste money.

I thought that maybe since I can’t talk to Debbie about that, because it would mean discussing something intensely private in front of the whole group, that I would try to go the self-help book route. Now I’m thinking that maybe baring my soul in front of a group of people that I see once a month, including the little narcissist, would be less trouble. Of course, it wouldn’t really do me a lot of good because even if I could bring myself to actually talk about things in group, I wouldn’t be able to actually get any help from her on how to deal with the issues resulting from it.

I guess I can try next month, since yesterday was therapy day for the month. Oh, therapy is getting shorter each month. We used to be scheduled for 90 minutes per month. Now, group will last less than an hour for every month. I wouldn’t be surprised if the center cuts it to thirty minutes per month in a few months or thirty minutes every two or three months. People are having a harder time getting their medicines and their records from Mental Health lately. I know it has to do with budget cuts to the state’s mental health budget that happen every year–sometimes multiple times per year. It’s ridiculous that the people in the most need of help in society can’t get it because the state is too busy with road projects. (If the state were actually repairing dangerous roads and bridges, then that wouldn’t bug me as much.)


About Janet Morris

I'm from Huntsville, Alabama. I've got as many college credits as a doctorate candidate, and the GPA of some of them, too. I have a boss by the name of Amy Pond. She's a dachshund. My parents both grew up in Alabama.