Finding myself

Chapter one

"Remember, Levi, stay on your medication and things will get better soon. See you next time!"
That's what Victoria, my therapist, said today, as she says after every therapy session, every other Sunday.
I've been in and out of therapy for around two years. A couple of months ago, I stopped going but then attempted suicide...again...and they dragged me back into the hellhole that is my therapy sessions.
Victoria is the fifth therapist I've had, it changes periodically because of the moves. and the fact that therapy just doesn't help. But instead of my parents listening when I say it doesn't help, they just change my therapist.
Victoria isn't a good therapist. But I do, however, appreciate her as a person. She's cool I guess, and insists that I call her Victoria, rather than Dr. Patterson.
She says it's better for me to call her by her first name so that I feel close enough to her to talk to her about my troubles. By "troubles" she means my psychological problems. She's nice to me, and understands me better than anyone else. But that doesn't mean she's helpful.
I open the door and begin to walk out into the waiting area.
Looking around me at all of the other patients, who are anywhere between nine and 35, I can't help but wonder eu they're here. How many of them have just had a bad experience?
How many of them were raped or abused? How many hate their family?
How many are, like me, in here for a failed suicide attempt?
Suddenly, I feel as though I could faint. The other patients are staring at me, and I know what they're looking at. The scars on my arms. I know that I'm always the "emo" (though I refuse to call myself that) and I understand that scars aren't always so usual. I understand that not everyone is well educated with the idea of selfharm. But it still hurts when they're all staring at me like I'm a monster.
I am not a monster.
At least, that's what I tell myself when these people stare at me.
I wish I wore a jacket, so they wouldn't stare at me anymore.
I thought about it this morning, but it's August and it's so hot. I should've worn a jacket though.
God, I'm such a screw up.
I should've remembered that people would stare at me.
They won't stop staring and my feet feel frozen to the floor. 'Leave' I think to myself, 'just leave'
But I can't.
The door opens and another boy, probably close to my age, walks in with the same hair as me. Mine is brown and his is black, but they both fall into our eyes just the same. He's wearing a band t-shirt, similar to mine, and he has just as many scars on his arms as I do. Everyone in the room turns to stare at him. I feel bad that all eyes are on him but I am also thankful that they are no longer judging me. My feet do not feel frozen anymore and I force myself out of the front door. "I've never seen that boy before" I say to myself, "maybe he's from the next town over."