Chapter 1:
I was never normal. And if I'm honest, I don't think I was intended to be. I have blue eyes, and my hair an unnatural platinum blonde. Not that I was born with hair the color of white sand, but hey, a girl can dream. I was once brunette, but got sick of the averageness of it. I wanted--I needed-- to stand out. If I wasn't standing out I felt like just another blur in a crowded room. Today I threw on the most offensive shirt I owned with some high-waisted shorts along with some black boots. I was ready to meet with my new therapist.
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I sat in a waiting room chair among a lady trying to get her squirming child to sit, a middle aged man in crocs and a TV playing a "Drugs are Bad" video. Which reminded me..
I pulled out a cigarette from my pocket searched for my lighter. Shit, I must've left it at home. "Got a light?" I asked the man in crocs. He walked over to me and lit my Marlboro up. "Don't tell the staff I have this, okay Alice? I'm on fire watch." he asked nervously. I nodded and shook my hand dismissively. "You got my word, Craig. Us pyros gotta have fun too, right?" I asked, smirking. He smiled and walked off. I put the cigarette to my mouth and inhaled. I got bored and made ringlets of smoke in the Pinesol scented air. "Do you mind??" asked/yelled the lady in an annoyed tone. I shook my head. "No, not at all." I said, blowing smoke in her direction.
She cleared her throat, about to say something, when a staff member walked in. "Alice are you ready f-" she looked at my cigarette. "Alice! Not inside!" she said, taking it from my fingertips. "Whoops. Sorry Grace. I'll remember next time." I said, walking down the hall to get weighed and get my height checked.
The air here always felt..stale. I don't know how to explain it quite right, but there was something about it that felt wrong. It felt like that feeling when you're at a hospital and you could feel people in other rooms either really happy or really upset. This place felt like my purgatory.
I entered the last door on the left of the hallway to where the scales were. I was greeted by a nurse in scrubs with cartoon cakes on it. I felt instantly uncomfortable to say the least. I stepped on the scale, already knowing the drill; after all, I've been coming here since I was 13, and now I'm 17.
"How've you been, Alice?" she asked politely. I nodded my head, to anxious of what the scale read. 105, the scale read. I felt a lump in my throat--I had gained 2 pounds in a week. But I had been working out and eating less... I even purged right after my binge...
"Are you ready for your height?" the nurse asked, trying to hide her response to mine. Tears rolled down my cheeks. How did I get this fat? God damn it. "5'7. You grew about two millimeters. Let's get you to you psychiatrist." she said, leading me down a hall way I didn't recognize. I wasn't good with change.
"Where are we going?" I asked, trying to examine as much as I could. White walls, paintings every other wall... "To see your psychiatrist, remember?" she lead me into a room and told me to have a seat. I sat there anxiously, left alone in this room, feeling anxious, angry, and paranoid.
The thing was, I haven't been taking my pills, because I know I'd be better off without them. So here comes the point to see if my bipolar side could help me out and seem calm while I lied my little heart out.
