I sat in my hospital bed, Cleo was still with me. She had stayed the entire night with me. She didn’t talk anymore, but it was obvious she wanted to say more. Cleo was angry and I was afraid. Afraid for my dad and afraid for myself.
Did I really mean it when I said I wanted to get better? I spoke, so that had to mean something, right? Or was I kidding myself when I said ‘yes’? Maybe I could never get better. Maybe I was one of those uncured cases.
Neither Leigh nor my dad showed up to visit me. I was almost feeling lost without one of them hovering over my shoulder the entire time. Cleo was here though, so I didn’t have time to miss the feeling of someone by me at all times.
They brought me food to eat, but I didn’t attempt to eat. I was back into my stone stage like the last time I had tried to kill myself. I was lost in a world that only I could be in.
All night I had tried to remember scraping away the skin from my wrists and hands making myself bleed. I couldn’t though, it was like the whole moment had been scratched from my memory.
First thing this morning the hospital therapist came in and diagnosed me with Excoriation Disorder or SPD (Skin Picking Disorder). She gave me a pair of gloves and a jingling bracelet that could easily be fiddled with. She said it was to prevent me from picking at my skin anymore.
“I could have told you she had that,” Cleo mumbled to the therapist.
“Then maybe you should work on this with her,” the therapist suggested.
“It’s not her biggest problem right now,” she replied.
“I know you’re not one for following the books, Dr. Patricks,” the therapist said, sounding defensive towards Cleo. “But sometimes the books know more than you think you know.” Then she left before Cleo could continue on with the disagreement.
“Stupid,” Cleo mumbled when the therapist was out of ear shot. “Thinks she’s some piece of hot shit because she was never depressed and had the life we all dream of having.”
I ignored her. She sounded bitter towards the therapist because she might have had a happy life, she didn’t know that for sure. I didn’t hate people who had a happy life, I envied them. I wanted to know what made them so happy and try to find that same happiness.
When I was in school girls used to think they weren’t interesting unless they had some type of psychological disorder. Honestly, I don’t think being depressed or anorexic made them interesting; the reason behind it made it interest. Being happy and being depressed are both equally interesting. Don’t think you need to be depressed to be considered important or worthwhile. Being happy makes you just as worthwhile and interesting. You’re a person either way.
“Leigh texted me this morning,” Cleo said sounding forced. “She said you can come home when they discharge you. Your dad is doing better, I guess.”
My lips twitched in response.
“Odette, you need to start making progress. I know you’re hurting and you’re mad and you’re scared. You’re probably thinking ‘If I go back to being the way I was before this, won’t it just happen again?’” She paused. “You can’t keep thinking about yourself. You have to think about others. There are people around you who care and worry about you all the time whether you know it or not. Suck it up and stop wallowing in self-pity.” Her voice was harsh.
I didn’t make a move, I kept my eyes trained on my hands. From the corner of my eye I could see Cleo hadn’t turned her gaze away from me. Anger burned and she looked like she was going to start yelling.
Taking a deep breath, she then spoke quietly, “You have to figure something out. Okay? I can’t just snap my fingers, give you a pep talk and you’ll be better. You have to do this yourself. You got yourself into this hole, climb your way out. I’ll be waiting at the top to make sure you don’t fall in again.”
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Sorry for the short chapter! It was supposed to be kind of short anyways. Thanks for all the support you guys have been giving <3 I couldn't be more greatful! Please remember to vote and comment! (It's my birthday today so maybe that will give you a little push? ;) Haha just kidding. But really it is my birthday) Bye!
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Falling Colors
Teen Fiction"The unfixable; the shattered; the torn; the broken. They all come here. It's my job to remake them, because once its broken there is no going back to the way it was. It must be remade." Six individuals. Six unique stories. Five exercises. One...
