WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
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Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
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Even though I want to stay in bed forever, I swallow back the anxiety and force myself to actually make it to my psychiatrist appointment. The other doctors referred me to specifically talk about getting back on meds, but what the fuck am I going to say to her if she already knows why I'm here?
Yeah, so, my dad was stealing my medication to chop up and snort, and I didn't want to renew it because I knew he'd keep taking them. The issues that I took the pills for have circled around Hell ten times over, which means I might need a higher dosage or a new prescription all together. I'm also an anorexic/bulimic addict. Fuck.
Repeating all the bullshit I've already told others (my mental health and drug history and how everything makes me feel) is getting less intimidating. Maybe the screening tests won't be so bad.
"Have you had a history of suicidal thoughts or harming yourself?"
Jesus. I guess I can't lie about this now.
I talk about the attempt without actually talking about it and reinforce that I'm working on therapy, and she refers me to another fucking person, a cognitive behavioral therapist. I relax a little when I see it's a dude. He's less likely to judge me. She recommends starting on low dosages of Venlafaxine and Trazodone for all my shit to see if it causes weight loss or other symptoms. "In extreme cases, Trazodone has been reported to cause depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts..."
I stop listening because the side effects are always worse than what the fucking medication is intended for. It's a given. "If something happens, I'll tell you."
And then, I'm out. It took two hours from my day, but there's still a large gap. I'm going to try and get a job later. By the time I even get to the fucking therapy, I'll have gotten through my DUI trial and both fucking psych evaluation tests. I need to join a club or something.
I'm itching for a cigarette on my way to a pharmacy, where it takes another half hour to get the prescription because they need me to fucking verify everything again. I think it's ironic they sell cigarettes and fattening candy in the same place as medication. There's three pieces of nicotine gum grinding between my teeth and a new nicotine patch under my belt. If I hold something in my hands, that could distract me.
At a bookstore, I find this book called The Secret History, by Donna Tartt. Gio raved about it when it first came out a few years ago. Now that there isn't the pressure of being forced into books for school, I've started to enjoy reading more. I'm actually getting engrossed in it rather than just memorizing details for quizzes.
It's about these assholes at some snooty liberal arts college who kill their friend. The story is okay, but the writing style is what gets me. It's beautiful and reads like classic literature. It's great enough for me to spend money on. Better here than on cigs.
