The Patterson Polaroids

The Therapy Session

I sort of spiraled out of control when Stacie died, and by spiral let's just say, i cried myself to sleep several times a day. Never left my bed for what felt like a month, and i went through 10 seasons of Supernatural in just two days. My parents were really worried about me, and so was i. The only friend, well, ex friend i had left was dead. It was all just too much to mentally and physically handle. And even though i had a proved theory as to how this started, i don't know how to fix it and i sure has hell don't know how to begin to make people believe me. My source of confidence before was because Stacie was alive. Or so i thought. And i knew she of all people would believe me, we use to be on the same level when we were friends. I sort of thought we still had that. I know she was just being nice to me because she was drunk. 

But sometimes, when you're drunk it's sort of like a truth serum, anything you say or do, is usually because you desire it. 

And just like that i was scheduled for therapy sessions two times a week, okay yeah i was spiraling, but i didn't need therapy. Half the things i wanted to talk to someone about, would just make me sound crazy, and the last thing i needed was another person not believing me. And worse, putting me in a mental institute because of what i've shared. Of course i couldn't tell my parents that reason, they just insisted i had to go. "Paige, your friends died, and you've fallen into depression. Believe me, i know what that looks like" my mom said, as she was cleaning out my room with all the bags of trash and dirty laundry i had laying around. "This place is a mess" my dad said, as he held his nose and looked around the room. 

"Have you even cleaned Amelia's litter box?" my mom asked, as i looked over at it in the corner and rolled over. "i'm guessing no" she said, as she exhaled. 

Everything felt pointless, even a shower, as well as cleaning out that litter box.

 "Alright come on" my dad said, as he carried me out of the bed and to the bathroom. 

So yeah, fine, i'll go to therapy. 

"Hi Paige, this is your new safe place, anything you share with me here will never leave this room. Unless you talk about wanting to hurt yourself or others. But you don't seem like that sort of girl" the therapist said, as i looked at her name tag on the desk in the corner. We were both perched on two loafs of comfort. A chair for her and a couch for me. "To start us off, what would you like to share?" she asked, as i folded my arms and legs and looked around the room. Was this really a safe place, if i was forced to come here? was this really a safe place if the person i was talking to was writing everything down and keeping it for records? was this really a safe place in general? i don't understand how people spill there guts to absolute strangers, and then feel good about it afterwards. 

"Everything you're thinking right now, you can say" she said, as she held her clipboard and her pen in her hand. "Well, you know those kids who died that went to Yale? yeah. i knew them, well most of them. And that's why i'm here. My parents think i've allowed myself to be depressed." i said, as everything that was coming out of my mouth felt pointless. My voice didn't even sound like my voice anymore, it was now a sound i didn't recognize. Perhaps the reason was because i hadn't used it in awhile. I'm surprised i still had one. "Do you think you're depressed?" she asked, as she wrote things down. I watched before exhaling, "maybe.. i just feel like everything's pointless, irrelevant, redundant, and pathetic." i said, as i slumped into the couch. 

"is this because your friends are gone? is that the reason why you believe everything is pointless?" she asked, i shrugged, knowing deep down she knew the answer. "I just think about the last thing i said to them, that night..and um.." i started, feeling tears brim at my eyes. "It's okay.." she said, as she allowed me to take a breath. "A part of me just hates myself for allowing my emotions to get in the way, of remembering that tomorrow is never always there for certain people. Sometimes not even for yourself. And the other part of me is like no, why should i even care that they're dead? Marco was an absolute dick to me, and so was Maggie. but it's not like i'm a evil person, who wants death upon those, who are terrible to me. But then why don't i? i don't know..." i said, wiping my tears from my eyes, as i felt embarrassed, crying in front of a stranger.