Don't Suffer

Therapy

Click click click! The clock noises keep getting louder as my heart races faster. I didn't ask to be here, I only showed up so the bickering would stop between everyone at home. I've been sitting here for 25 minutes waiting for one therapy appointment I didn't even want to show up to. I've been going to these dumb things since I was six years old. Never once did I ever feel like I got something out of it. I always hear these stories about how therapy changed all these people's lives. I never felt that it helped me, which makes hearing stories about people's lives changing for the better hurt more. I don't get how answering the same questions over and over again is supposed to help heal me. They always act like I don't have a huge file just sitting in their desk or as if they don't scribble notes down every visit.

Everyone at home keeps telling me I need to get over the past. But how am i supposed to forget the things that broke me into a million pieces by the people i supposed to depend on most. Maybe my brain is as broken as my skin and heart. I know I'm partly to blame for my own hurt. In that sense I can understand why they all say I need help. They tried asking me why I wanted to hurt myself. How am I supposed to know the answer to that question? I barely know how I feel half of the time. I wish I was normal, maybe then I wouldn't always feel so alone. Perhaps then I could feel without everyone telling me I need meds. No matter what drug they've had me take they always make me feel so numb. I'd honestly rather feel the pain and suffering than nothing. Though feeling nothing makes the pain go away so maybe that's how I'm supposed to feel.

"Lea! Lea Madden!" a squeaky overly joyful voice screeches across the waiting room. My head snaps up and looks around as I hear the womens voice. She calls my name once more "Lea Madden!?" this time even squeakier. She was tall and very thin, with hair so blonde it could blind you in the sun,and her eyes were the color of honey. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with pink tights and flats. Her smile looks so forced. I know it's some tactic they do to make you feel comfortable.

I stand up awkwardly and dig my nails into my wrist. It doesn't hurt. I've done this for as long as I can remember anytime I meet new people it makes me feel sick. Digging into my own flesh has been the only way I've ever known to make the nashua go away in those situations. I shuffle my feet towards the women as my stomach drops. My throat starts getting dry as I get closer to her. I can't help but feel like everyone is staring at me when she calls my name. Do I look weird to them? Can they tell that I'm not as normal as everyone else? I pull on my hood over my red hair and look down trying to avoid eye contact. I look up for a quick second and see a mirror on the door of this woman's office, my green eyes staring back at me. My face was paler than a ghost. It looked like I haven't slept for days.

The woman opens the office door and smiles, gesturing to me to take a seat on a bright pink couch. I plop down staring at the clock. I just have to survive 45 minutes of this. "Well, hi um Lea was it? I'm Rachel nice to meet you finally," She sits in a matching pink chair with a notepad and pen. I nod as I gulp for air her voice was getting squeakier. I can already tell she's like the rest of them. "Well, I'm just going to remind you here that everything we say here is confidential ok?" she says, clearing her throat notepad resting on her lap. I look at the floor as my leg bounces uncontrollably like a ping pong ball. "Yeah, ok," I cross my arms near my stomach. It has barely even started yet and I want to run. "So I see here you have a history of self harm. When was the last time you did that to yourself?" she puts the black pen against her notepad ready to scribble everything I say. "Two years ago," I replied blatantly. The pen starts scraping the paper.

"Okay, it also says that you were in the mental institution when you were thirteen, can you tell me why that was?" She stares at me, her eyes look colder now that I have a closer look. It's like she's staring through me. "I tried umm .... Ahem um slitting my throat," My face goes bright red with anger and frustration. She knows all this, why is she asking me she knows. "Ok, and why did you do that?" she stares back at her dumb notepad. I can't believe I'm going through this again. " I was sad that my biological mother wouldn't apologize for what she did to me," I stare at the clock again. It's only been 3 minutes.

Why is time moving so slow? I hate when this happens. Sometimes I wonder if I'm already dead and this is my own hell. Why is it that the worst or the miserable moments feel like the longest moments of your life but then anything good that happens goes by so fast. Maybe I'm just overthinking it again. I have a tendency to do that.

"I see, it also says here that you were admitted again at 15. Why was that?" she smiles up at me as if it's a joy that I'm suffering. "I tried hanging myself," I replied softly, barely hearing myself. "And again why?" she licks the tip of her pen ready to write down more. "My best friend killed himself," my eyes started to sting from the tears holding back. I don't know if I'm angry or sad right now is it possible to feel both. I bite down the side of my cheek as hard as I can trying not to let tears out. I hate talking about him. I've talked about it too many times. I don't know how many times they want to hear how badly I wanted to die because he's not here, well I guess I still want to die but I refuse to do anything to end my life. I've seen what losing someone to suicide can do. I know people care about me. It's more of I just want the pain to stop I suppose.

"Why do you people always ask the same bullshit over and over, don't you get tired of hearing it? I know you've read it already, what's the point of talking about it?" I say choking back on my tears trying to hide them. I'm not letting this random woman know I'm weak. "It's supposed to help you hun, I'm not here to upset you," her voice keeps getting higher and higher. "Can you just cut the shit I'm 21, not some child. I'm here to get over my past and not answer the same 10 questions once a week so you can get a paycheck," this time I try not to laugh. Is she really this dense? Maybe I'm just overreacting. All I know is that this is all the same crap I've been asked before. I hear her pen scraping against the paper as she clears her throat as if she is about to speak to me. I stare up at the clock. It's been 20 minutes. I'm almost halfway done with this thing.

"Okay Lea, what do you want to talk about then? I'm here to speak about whatever you like," she forces a smile at me as if what I said had no effect. What do I want to talk about? I guess I never really thought about that before. Maybe that was my issue. I didn't know what or why I was even here. I think I'm doing fine. It's my mom and brother who think I'm the problem. Perhaps they're right. I am the issue. "I don't know," I murmured under my breath. I look up at her and shrug. Does anyone really know why they ever come to these stupid things anyways. "Okay, well let's start with how things are at home?" She stares back down at her notepad trying to avoid eye contact with me. "They're fine I guess. Minus the fact my brother breaks everything when he's mad and tells me it's all my fault even when I do nothing. My mom tells me it's because his mental issues are worse than mine yet she's the one who begged me to come here. My dad forgets everything only about time till he forgets about us. My boyfriend is how I can survive emotionally," I reply, forgetting to take a breath. My eyes dart back and forth between her and the clock. "I see, sounds like a lot on your plate," I can feel her staring straight at me.

Until she looks at the clock with me. I know she wants to be done with this as much as I do. I mean it must be exhausting hearing all these sob stories all the time. Probably why they never come up with different questions. They just want it to be done with as much as I do. Only difference is they weren't forced to be in this shit hole. They chose it on purpose. I don't get why anyone would want to sit and hear people complain about how shit life is all the time. I'm sure they have their own problems that they deal with too. Why add more people's problems to the pile of your own?

"Well, looks like our time is up for today, how does next Tuesday sound at the same time?' She spreads another forced smile on her face. It's almost like these people are held at gunpoint to smile. I nod and stand up off the couch as she rises from her chair. I followed her out to the waiting room. I walk up to the front desk and a lady that reeks of cigarettes and cheap perfume asks me when my next appointment is schooled. "Tuesday at 2pm again," I look down at my phone as it buzzes with text messages spamming my phone from my mom again. I wonder what I did wrong this time.