stars shine brightest in room 93 (halren/halsren/lausey?)

i

tune: someday never comes-ccr

I hate being unsure.

Whether it be unsure of myself, or unsure of something else, I still hate the feeling. And it's not like I'm not often unsure, because I am. I'm unsure of a lot of things. But that doesn't make me have any less hate for it.

Another thing is that I don't hate the things I'm unsure of. I hate myself for the lack of confidence I have toward them. I hate myself for the lack of confidence I have generally.

I have a certain way I go about life. It's very organized very efficient and I take a lot of pride in it. I only accept tasks if I know that in the end I will have been able to carry it out in an orderly manner.

But many people will argue, "Well, how could you possibly know you can achieve something before you've achieved it already?"—And although that is my point exactly—I kind of just rely on if I have done something among those lines before. And if I'm trying to do something new, I'll only do it if I have the knowledge to do it correctly.

This mantra of course only pertains to things of major importance, like my job. If someone is relying on me to help them—which is what my occupation revolves around—and I have no idea how to do it, that doesn't only affect my title and credibility, it has an exceedingly bigger effect on the person who had trusted me enough to put themselves within my care.

Over time, having experienced certain situations and hardships, I have decided that I have no room in my life for manipulation in any form. I have no time for persuasion. I don't like to wing things. That's just not me.

So when my secretary/best friend asks me to take a job at General Hospital with a woman twice any of my former and current patients age, I know exactly what to tell her.

"No," I say, adding one last sugar into my cup of complimentary coffee.

"Lo, come on."

"I'm not a physician Ally, I'm a therapist," My heels click against the tiled floor as I begin to walk, grazing my ears with a brisk rhythm. The sound just adds a sort modernity to everything I do while in these shoes. It has become a custom sound to my current every day.

"And a children's therapist at that. How old did you say this girl is?"

"She's twenty-eight, Lauren, just a couple years older than you." Ally answers, following quickly behind me, a cell phone in her hand. "But she needs someone like you."

"Then find an adult's specialist, and send her on her way," I say simply, with a shake of my head.

Yes, I love helping people, and yes, this particular patient needs it but I can't give it to her. For one: I went to graduate school for adolescent's psychology, and two: I can't move from my office.

Having to travel from my home to my office and then to a hospital at night is just too much. I need to help myself too and adding to my daily passage won't do that. My life over the past few years has been nothing but work, work, and more work and I know for a fact that it hasn't been good for my own mental health.

Helping others is my virtue, it's my everything, but I can't wreck myself in the process of trying to fix someone else. If I'm broken, I'll be a defect plane with an area full of passengers.

And how do you think that would go?

"The thing is Lauren, this girl needs a children's therapist." Ally reveals and I turn to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

She's serving me this face. This face that tells me she's nothing but the utmost serious. And trust me Ally, is never truly serious.

Her giggly, radiant attitude is probably the number one reason I love her so much. She's kind of just this splash of sunshine to a very big part of my life. When I first met her, she sort of reminded me of my mother before she got sick.