Tumblr Girls and Antidepressants

Imagine this:

You're a seventeen-year-old girl.

You live with your parents in a normal-sized modern house.

Your name is Chrysanthia; because your Mom thought that was the correct pronunciation of chrysanthemum. She was wrong.

You have anxiety and depression.

You visit your therapist, Mr. Jameson, twice a week. There, every few visits he always makes sure to write you a three-month prescription for Zoloft and Xanax.

He frequently asks you how your day has gone, and on the very seldom occasion you say "Good." Other than that, you give another one-word response, "Okay." Afterwards he stares at you, and then moves his pen and hands you your prescription.

You hope that he never goes deeper into probing your mind, but at the same time you wish he did.

You wish someone did.

Without judging you.

But you know he would.

Not because of anything he's said or done, but because of his eyes.

They seem to peer into the very essence of your soul, and determine everything about you.

One day comes out very rough, so you decide to talk to him with a whopping statement of two words: "It sucked."

He asks you why and you say, "It just did."

He moves his pen and hands you a prescription, "See you next week sweetheart."

You walk out without a word.

That night, you attempt suicide in the garage of your house; ironic enough, you didn't turn on the car and let it run. You used a pair of scissors to slit your wrists horizontally. You wanted to cut vertically, but at the same time you didn't.

You didn't want to be covered all in blood.

It takes you a few weeks to fully recover, as they have you sedated for a large portion of it, and the rest you spend in the suicide watch area.

Mr. Jameson visits you almost every day, and you get tired of his face; eyes especially.

They've seemed to stare deeper into you.

He doesn't have any paper to give you now that the hospital has you covered, so he writes down your answers.

You have no choice but to answer considering he's not going anywhere and the nurses caught you last time you tried to escape; you talk. "How is it here."

"Fine."

"Tired?"

"No."

"Taking your medicine?"

"Have to."

He finally packs up and leaves.

On your final day in the hospital, your parents fight to keep you from being released into an asylum, but you say you wouldn't care either way. Mr. Jameson talks to you just as you've packed your things. "You should get a hobby."

"Okay."

Thus, your journey began.

For one of the first times in your life, you listen to what Mr. Jameson said.

You search the web typing into Google, "Hobbies to prevent suicide: Blogging, skiing, scrap-booking, baking, sports, photography."

You were uninterested in the majority, but blogging stood out.