Seeing him return again is just what I expected. It's like receiving the IKEA catalogue on one's doorstep; it's the old, well-read manual, and you know what's to be found on each page, even before turning them. Only the style is new. The content's all there like it's always been, only dressed differently. Printed on cheap paper. Yet in this person, this shell, there is nothing exciting. I only need to think for a couple of seconds to know what his next chapters will be about, if not the entire book.

He's quite the performance, but makes me think of the worst example possible: myself, a few years ago. The man is passive aggressive, a liar, an egoist bordering on sub-clinical levels of psychosis and psychopathy, a person who's unfit to know how he feels but is quick to tell others how they fell, no matter how wrong he is; a nobody who at some point stopped to really care for other people and delved into sadness as a sort of veil to hide himself away from dealing with the consequences of his actions.

Nothing's wrong with this guy, it's his therapists that can't handle him. Don't they care enough? And if they do their job properly, how come he's still crying his head off at times, trembling with fear? Well, even though he's not telling them everything that's something they should figure out, right?

And all that matters to him is his own self, even though there might be aeons of "I'm doing this for you, so..." It's all manipulation. I feel like a sober alcoholic watching a drunkie deep in denial. Somebody who keeps repeating himself ad infinitum, seemingly hoping that somebody will take him under her wings to mend him, even if it means bending and breaking her words until they become his.

The proof is out there to see for everybody but him. One or several breakdowns are inevitable, but in the end, I hope he gets what he deserves.