J.P. Reed
"H-how how do I-I make it s-stop?" She asks. Her arms beginning to burn from the excessive rubbing. She only did that when the nerves got too uncontrolable.
"Make what stop?" The therapist asked, the same question she always asked. As if this was their first visit-as if she didn't know what was going on in her head.
But she didn't, and that only made her more helpless and hopeless. Anger, helplessness and hopelessness was all she felt these last few months and it really sucked.
It sucked because people pretended to know something they've never thought to learn. It's everywhere and in their mind, it's no where.
And the worst part? It worked. It worked so people like her could get moments like this.
She nearly stopped in her tracks. And for the first time, quit pacing. "What do you mean 'make what stop?' you know damn well what!" Anger was overflowing. It's so much it makes you suffocate while breathing.
"It's in my head! It's always in my head. I can't make it stop or bribe it to slow down. This is my goddamn head and I deserve to control it. Why can't I control it? I didn't do anything." Then comes the tears. The ever-lasting, skin-burning tears. Everywhere, everyday.
It was a cycle for her. A repetitve, painful, agonizing, excruciatingly annoying, miserable cycle.
Question. Anger. Saddness. Depression. Hope. Question. Anger. Saddness. Depression. Hope. Question. Anger. Saddness. Depression. Hope. Question. Anger. Saddness. Depression. Hope.Question. Anger. Saddness. Depression. Hope.Question. Anger. Saddness. Depression. Hope.
Suicide.
