Breathe

Chapter 1 - Medicine

I don't know why I'm so infatuated with sadness. I don't feel complete without it. It's terrible, to be addicted to sadness, because sadness is the sort of thing that can remind you of what's real and what's not, and it's the sort of thing that has the power to kill. 

Maybe I'm in love with death, too. I don't know why. Something about it just fascinates me. The ways to die, how to do it, what happens afterward...

I'm beyond screwed up. 

I sigh, tilting my head back and concentrate on my heart. One....two....three...

My therapist told me to focus on my heartbeats. Something about counting them and clearing my mind. Whatever. My therapist is also the same person who still thinks that with a bunch of pretty lies and appointments, you can fix a person's mind.

"Your parents love you," he tells me. "They want you to get better, they miss the real you."

The real me? So, this me, the one with more scars than friends, the one with depression and anxiety, the one with other problems, isn't the real me?

Who is the real me, then? Someone with perfect grades, a spotless record, and no depression or scars? Someone who fits the definition of perfect? Someone normal? 

I saw the way they looked at me. Their faces dropped, their sentences trailed off, their mouths stopped moving the second they saw my body, criss-crossed with little lines of pink scars 

Oh. 

Even the whispers stopped when I walked by. People stared, not bothering to hide their disgust.

Of course. I'm not pretty. Blood isn't in this season. Scars aren't beautiful.

My therapist told me to write down my feelings in a diary.

"Or, you can call it a journal, if you don't like the word 'diary'. Or thought-keeper, or--"

"I got it," I said.

He smiled at me. He wasn't too bad, but he kept trying desperately to fix me with what he learned in a class at college. He thinks he can put me back together, if he does the right exercises. I've seen his book, it's full of "activities that promote well-being and happiness."

If only he knew that it's not easy to fix something that's been broken. You can't talk at a broken toy, hoping it becomes unbroken. Shouting at a broken plate doesn't make it magically unbreak. 

So how do you fix a person?

According to Phil, my therapist, the answer is to "understand what's causing my feelings of depression and tendencies to inflict injury upon myself,". Or something like that. He said it in a less blatant way, he disguised the word "suicide" with other medical terms. Maybe, if he tried really hard, he could fool me into thinking I'm something I'm not.

Every night at 8 o'clock, I pick up a black pen and write. It's usually just one word, over and over. Written on the page, and traced countless times. The ink blurred, it stained my hands, but I didn't stop writing until I was satisfied.

death death death death death death death death death death death death death death death

No punctuation. No anything, apart from my raw stream of consciousness. When Phil opened my journal, his face was hopeful -- had I reached a point where I was spontaneously done with depression? 

His eyes scanned the pages. His eyebrows furrowed, his lips pressed tight against each other.

"I don't think you quite understand the point of this, Noelle. The journal is meant to be your thoughts, how you feel, what you think about, you know...Maybe we can work on this." He sighed, snapping the book shut with one hand, gingerly handing it back to me.

I took it and set it on my knee. "I understand it. And I did exactly what you asked. I wrote down how I feel."

He pushed his glasses up his nose and folded his hands. I knew this meant he was either disappointed or confused. Maybe both.

He looked at me, akin to how a scientist would examine a strain of bacteria under a lens.

I sat there for a few minutes, waiting for a break in the tension.

"So, I'm just going to leave now," I said slowly, gathering my bag and journal of death.

"But the session!" Phil sputtered, suddenly snapping out of his intense gaze.

"The session can go to hell," I said, walking out of the room.

I ignored Phil's protests and reasoning on why I absolutely must stay because I really think we're making progress! and kept going.

I turned the corner and smacked into a man, knocking the both of us to the linoleum floor.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry, I really should have paid attention, I'm so sorry, are you alright? Did I hurt you?" I gushed to the mystery man, who seemed to be a bit dazed.

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine, miss. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I didn't mean to run into you like that, I'm not used to people being in my way, usually they just ignore me--" I paused. Why was I telling this man all this? 

I shut my mouth and closed my eyes, counting my heartbeats.

One. 

Two.

Three.

Four.

"May I ask what you're doing?" The man asked, and I opened one eye, keeping the other shut.

"Counting my heartbeats. Phil told me to. Any time I get stressed or something, I'm supposed to do it, something about it calming me down or whatever," I said.

"Hm. Seems..." He trailed off.

"Stupid?" I sighed.

"Helpful. I might have to try that," he said.

I stood there, unsure of what to do. 

He sensed the rising awkwardness of the situation and tried to correct it, shoving his hand toward me.

"I'm Harry, by the way," he said, cocking his head to the side.

"Noelle," I said, smiling.

"Nice to meet you, Noelle. I'm sure I'll see you around here," he said, walking off.

Of course he would.

We were in a facility for the mentally ill, after all.