Hello! First off, thank you for clicking on my story. :) My writing style and grammar has really improved over the last year. And I am so excited to share it with you all. I love reading everything you have to say so feel free to comment! It's going to be an beautiful journey. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it.
-Heather
Sometimes I wonder just what our purpose here one earth is. Its not meant to be a morbid thought by any means.
High School Presentations on the awareness on Teen suicide just wasn't enough. Now that I'm thinking about it I don't know if anything on earth would have ever been able to prepare me for what It is actually like. You know It, everyone knows It, and if you don't. You won't be left out long.
Being sad is complex. It is an exhausting time consuming feeling that literally drains you in every way possible.
No amount of school presentations can prepare a person for this. They all touch on points of how your friends and family will miss you, how it's selfish.
You would be creating the worst crime ever, in a selfish way. I never saw it in the same light as everyone else. That however isn't a great way to start a conversation with an anti suicidal person, such as, a Therapist.
The blonde haired woman who has been lecturing me on the ways to be a healthy functioning teenager wipes the sweat off her forehead with the cuff of her cashmere sweater.
I have to admit, she did a pretty good job with the first hour, insisting I was her main priority.
She almost had me convinced.
"So, how are you feeling today?"
I avoid her gaze as she looks at me waiting for the response that we both knew isn't coming.
She had been asking me this question for the past year. But I haven't come up with an answer thats both true, and what a therapist wants to hear.
But I do know one thing,
I wouldn't be here if I was felling okay.
The poster that I stare at all the time is hung up in the same spot, same tacky frame in the corner of the room.
"I AM HERE TO HELP YOU"
in boldfaced
across a photo of a goldfish in a shattered bowl. I know this photo is suppose to be inspirational, giving you a sense of hope, maybe.
But I cant help but think, This is where shattered people go. No one is going to save me, you cant buy people a new bowl and expect the broken pieces to fit back together the way they were before they came apart.
The tearing noise of a piece of paper from a spiral notebook is what always comes next, its the final step before I can go home.
Each day there is a new question at the top of the paper, sometimes its easy. Like,
"What did you eat for breakfast today?"
Other times I sit for half an hour thinking of a response.
Today is one of those days. The top of the paper reads,
"'What makes you, you?""
I stare at the paper in front of me.
I'm tempted to ask Bianca just what kind of question she's asking, but I refrain myself. Good behavior is what will get me out of here after all. Bianca is a nice lady and all. Its just that, this is her job. She doesn't actually care, the 2:30 after school client is the same as the 4:00 client which is the same as the me.
I wouldn't be surprised if some days she got us all mixed up.
We are all tasks that needs to be completed. When you think about it that way we don't seem like people anymore. We are all shattered goldfish bowls broken in our own unique ways.
Who am I?
It's a pathetic story, I'll admit.
I want to laugh, but that's also what it feels like when I want to cry too.
Those two emotions are so closely related sometimes that its hard to tell them apart. Do they even come in separate packages? Or are they meant to come together in a pathetic twin pack. Even if we only want one they both come together.
I do not know who I am.
And I don't know if I ever will.
The blue lines on the notebook blur together. Tears threaten to spill over.
How can such a simple question have such a significant answer?
My answer should be pages long, but instead its a few sentences.
"I am a broken person with shattered pieces. I don't recognize myself anymore.
I will never be able to be put back together. That is okay.
I am broken. Maybe broken things should be thrown away. They are useless."
I get up and walk out faster than the notebook can fall to the floor.
YOU ARE READING
Defying The Odds
RomanceElliot is independent. Not because she chooses to, but because she has to be. Her mother is hardly ever home, and when she is, it's like she isn't. Their communication barrier is something Elliot has always brushed off as normal. After all, it has a...
