"You're scoring very high for depression Kimberly."
I was sat in the GP's office with a pen in hand and questionnaire freshly completed, the ink was probably still wet to touch and the doctor sat in front of me had already diagnosed the problem. Depression. That was the last thing I wanted.
"Now I think it would be best if you go to see your college councellor, I've been told she's very good. And if you come back in around two weeks, I'll see if you need to be prescribed anti-depressants."
Now I'd done psychology for long enough to know anti-depressants don't eliminate the cause of the problem, they just eliminate the symptoms for a while, so if I ever stopped, that cause would still be there. That little nagging sensation telling me I'm not good enough, telling me they would still torment me even though I hadn't seen them in months. They caused me pain and now I'm suffering long-term because of it. Bastards. Just because I wasn't popular enough and I didn't listen to the right songs or wear the right clothes or talk to the right people or admire the right role models. I don't even know if you could call the people they admired role models, the last thing I heard the likes of Katie Price were getting married after dating a guy for 6 weeks. If that's how they want to be when they leave college, then fine, but I certainly don't.
I left the doctor's office feeling numb. They had given me depression effectively. Why would you do that to a person? Another breathing, living, human being. I guess nobody means anything to them apart from themselves. My black hair got caught in the breeze temporarily shielding my vision as I walked along the pavement, it was a good job actually because I realised I had started to cry, anything to hide the eyeliner dripping down my face was worthwhile, whether I could see or not. It wasnt sadness causing the tears to tumble down my cheeks though, it was anger, deep red anger. Anger because of the little group of popular people in high school who put everyone down and made me feel ugly on the inside as well as on the outside. They made my boyfriend break up with me, they called me every name under the sun, they said I was worthless and most of all they told me I took up valuble breathing space that someone worthwhile deserved. I started to believe it myself at one point. But why should it be me who dies? I've done nothing wrong.
My music helped a lot on the way home. I could shove my earphones in and drown out every little worry I had, every cruel word they ever uttered melted away when Black Stone Cherry rang through my ears. No matter how loud I played my music, this time I still felt alone, lost even though I had lived in the same place all my life. Lost mentally. D.E.P.R.E.S.S.I.O.N. 10 letters that made me feel horrible. If people found out how much would they judge me, not only am I different anyway, now I have a mental disorder too, that surely couldn't help people's perception of me. Now I was the weird one with a messed up head. How great.
I walked past the park on my way home, the sun was blazing so it was completely packed. Full of happy, shiny, sunny people laughing and joking all sat out on the grass. It made me sick. Then I saw them. The group of plastic blow up dolls and fake tanned guys that made my life a misery. It took so much not to just go and tell them exactly what they had done shortly after killing them, but no, I was civilised and walked straight past, all I really wanted was the security of my bedroom anyway and I was almost home.
"What did they say, honey?" My mum basically pounced on me as I walked in the door.
"They don't know what's wrong, I have to go back soon," Yes I led to my own mother, but she was far too intrusive. The messed up parts in my head were exactly that, mine, and I wasn't willing to share. Not with my mum, not with anyone apart from my diary which was next on my agenda after CSI.
An hour later and I realised how effective cyanide was as a homicidal killer in the States and how hard it was for the police department to find the killer because all the food was poisoned. Oh well. It was only fiction, mainly. Now for the diary, my best friend, the one place I could express every single thought I had, no matter how filthy, bitchy or crazy. It was mine and nobody else read it, so I could write whatever the hell I wanted. And I did.
Then my crazy sadistic thoughts meant something, it all made sense for once, it all linked. I wanted to bury the hatchet with the people who made me miserable, then I wanted to bury them. Six feet underground seemed a good place for them to stay. Then people who deserved it would have the air they would have taken away to fill their poisonous lungs. And that's how I'd do it! Poison. Cyanide. Surely you could make it somehow. Surely it would be on the internet. Surely it would be very easily accesible for someone posing as a scientist. Dr. Kimberly Cooper. Sounded good to me.
"Are you okay up there Kimmy?"
"Yeah mum, I'm just fine," I replied with a huge grin on my face. Payback was so sweet. Especially when I get to eliminate the cause, not just cover up the symptoms. Forget the antidepressants. Forget the therapy. Forget going back to the doctors, I already knew I was insane. I was going to tackle the problem right at the source starting with culprit number one; Natasha Jones, my first bully, primary school. She called me names in the playground. She was a follower. She was a friend who turned against me. She lied. She deserved everything that was coming for her.
I logged onto Facebook and found her face. Her orange face and bleach blonde hair that made her brunette roots stick out like a sore thumb. Her ugly personality was spilt out all over her updates:
I don't understand why I put up with my parents, they didn't even get me the right colour car for my 17th
I know I'm better than you but when I walk down the street please don't stare, it makes me feel admired, actually, please do stare
Love's useless, let's just all forget it and sleep with whoever!
Whore.
Despite my anger levels reaching an all time high, I clicked the message button, it was time for the first burial.
Hey Nat! Long time no speak! How's college going? We need to catch up soon!
Love Kim xx
I made myself sick. I was so repulsive when I wanted to be. I hated being all sickly sweet. 'We need to catch up!" That was a lie. If I never saw her again it wouldn't hurt at all, but I wanted her gone, I needed to get rid of the cause, and if I didn't get rid of the cause, how the hell was I supposed to get better.
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