State Of Mind | sm + cc

:Eight:

Really long Sooooo

Camila and I walked into the unusually rectangular building and walked up to the old man sitting at the front desk. Camila asks about the specific location of my therapist's office and we begin to walk down the beige corridor. This place seemed way too cheap to be serving people in mental need. I hate the word "mental," even if it isn't being used in the derogatory sense. It always makes me clench my fists when people say those kind of things. I'm not getting into this, though.

"Hello. Please take a seat." A ragged old woman gestured us to sit in the two clothed chairs perfectly placed in front of her desk. "I'm Camila, and this is Shawn." Camila attached our hands under the desk to comfort me. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to react to this whole thing. We scheduled the appointment about a month ago, but everything has been going on a downward spiral. I could feel the pressure of the air crushing me.

"Does she always introduce you to people instead of you doing it yourself?" With a click of her black ink pen, she began jotting notes down. "I'm just nervous." I interjected before Camila could answer for me. The old woman simply nodded. Nothing more.

"Well, I'm Dr. Genevieve. Please, tell me... how would you like me to assist you?" Her fingers locked together as she stared intently at me and Camila. "I, um, have schizophrenia. Well, I think... That's what my last therapist told me. I don't even know anymore...It's been... um, difficult. I just down know what to do." Camila's thumb ran across my rough knuckles. My knuckles have turned red since my last incident. I wasn't safe anymore. I wasn't sad from myself or Camila. My knuckles collided with the bathroom mirror a couple of weeks ago after I nearly tempted myself again. I hated the look of my reflection. Not to mention the voices trapped in my head continued to try to convince me that it was a valid idea to use the gun. They've even given themselves names in my brain. I hate them so much. It makes me revolted that they haven't left. My mentality has seriously gotten worse as the days have gone by.

"Has anything drastic occurred? Have you had suicidal tensions? Have people been telling you to do things?" The potted plant in the corner of her office was dying. It looked like fern, though. Who puts a fern in a flower pot?

"Yes. Um," I looked over to Camila looking back at me," I almost killed myself... I've hurt myself." My lip trembled at the thought of my actions. "Why is that?" She asked once again. "I just wanted the talking to stop. It got too loud." My legs bounced in place as my anxiety of this whole situation grew.

"Are they bothering you right now?"

"No."

"And why is that?"

"Well, they don't bother me every second of the day."

"When do they leave you alone?"

"Um, whenever I hold my... gun. Or whenever I'm near Camila."

Dr. Genevieve lifted her eyebrows before reverting her attention over to Camila. "So, I'm guessing you too are... married?" "Oh, no m'am. He's my boyfriend." The therapist began to interrogate Camila. Dr. Genevieve acts as if we were both being put up for trial. She seemed too harsh to be doing this job.

"Do you two get in fights?"

"Sure, every couple does." She answered

"Has he ever gotten violent with you?"

"Um, not super v-"

"But he's hit you, correct?"

"No. I never said he-"

"But you implied it. Why are you dating him?"

"I love him." Her voice cracked in nervousness. Her voice always did that was people, or really anything, made her nervous.
"Does he love you, though? How do you know it isn't just a voice in his head telling him to love you just to hurt you?"

I clenched my left fist in irritation. Who is she to even ask these intruding things?

"Yes he loves me. We didn't come here for couples' counseling, we came here to have you help his mental disorder." Camila rolled her eyes as I did the same thing. I already hate this therapist.

But, disorder? Is that what she thinks I have? Am I that big of a freak she thinks I have a disorder? I don't have that. I'm just not in the right place right now.

"You can't make schizophrenia go away." She bluntly replied to our pleas.

"That's the only reason we came here!" My voice began to rise in anger and frustration.

"I know, but I have to analyze the entire situation to see what I can do." She flipped a page on her white legal notepad. I hadn't even noticed the amount of notes she'd been taking in the little amount of time we had been here.

"And? What can you do?" My hand slammed on the desk. She didn't seem fazed by it at all. I must be just another number on a spreadsheet to her. She's just like the rest of them.

"I want you to take this medicine and it might silence... them." She wrote a prescription down on a sticky note. Camila snatched it away from me before I could read it.

"He just said he was suicidal! Are you fucking crazy!? Why would would you give him medicine! Give him something else!" She crumpled up the small piece of paper and tossed into the trash can on her right. The therapist was a little frantic now. She had probably already prepared the same routine: give the patient medicine and get paid; I'm not that patient.

"You know what?! This was a waste of our time, Camila. Let's go." I pulled her out of her chair and walked down to the corridor and left the building. Such a waste of my time and energy. My eyes began to throb at the tension that built up in the air. Why do I cry every time I get frustrated? This is such a failure for me. Nothing ever works out for me. Never. For once in my life I wish I didn't cry every time something didn't "go my way." I wish I could man up and face my anxieties. I hate this life. I hope that in my next life I could actually get some sort of grip.

I opened the door for Camila as she got into the driver's seat. As I buckled the seatbelt over myself, my hands hid my face in disgust.

1100 words omg
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