Flaws || h.s.

Chapter Twenty One

I got help the next day after school. I had an appointment with my psychiatrist scheduled from months back, which was good because I had planned to call her anyway for a referral. I wanted to find a good shrink in London that I could talk to because, quite frankly, I was going crazy.

And, after hearing about Jackson's brother, I had an epiphany of sorts. I realized that I couldn't do this alone, and if I continue to try, I'll die. I'll kill myself, whether or not I mean to do so doesn't matter. Whether I put a revolver in my mouth or I starve to death, I'll die. I had to get help. Real help, I mean, not just drugs. I had to try to get better and maybe I really would.

"Beth," Dr. Warren said. "Great to see you. You look great."

"Thank you," I said, tight lipped, as I sunk down on her leather couch Monday after school.

"How is London so far?" she asked.

"I really like it," I told her. "My summer job starts on Saturday. I'll be teaching beginner's ballet classes."

"That's good!" she exclaimed, then added: "Best to keep busy. And it's even better when it's something you love."

"Yeah, I think it will be good for me," I said, picking at a loose string on my shorts. "What I really wanted to ask you is are there any good psychiatrists in London?"

"Of course! Would you like me to print out a list for you?"

"That would be great," I sighed out of relief. There. It's done. I'm getting help. I'm trying. I took the first step toward getting better.

"Dr. Taylor is a personal friend of mine who specializes in adolescent depression. I think he would be a good doctor for you," Dr. Warren carefully highlighted his name and phone number and handed me the list, still warm from the printer. She sat down across from me and crossed her legs. "So what brought this on, suddenly wanting to see a therapist? I know coming here is not your choice nor idea."

"Well, after my," I cleared my throat. "attempt, if I wanted to get out of rehab, I had to see a psychiatrist however many times a week. I was just dying to get out of that place so I came here because I knew you from when I was in the hospital. Then I got better, a lot better. I was eating and I wasn't hurting myself and I was okay for that little bit. Then, I started a new school. People were nice and I made some friends. Things were good. They were good for a while then I crashed. Things got bad. I stopped eating, I hurt myself more than I ever had before. I was a mess."

"So, since you were good for so long, you stopped coming to see me and stopped taking your meds?"

"Right. I thought I was better so I stopped taking them. Little did I know, talking to someone and taking whatever pills I was supposed to was why I was better. So I got worse, Harry came home, we moved in. I freaked out on him yesterday just because he flushed my razors down the toilet. Then we came back to his parents house last night and I talked to my mum's new boyfriend and he told me about his depressed brother who killed himself. It got me to thinking, holy shit, I'm only getting worse, and if I don't do something about it, I'll die."

"Interesting. It was your choice to stop taking your medication and stop talking to a psychiatrist, just like it is your choice to get better, correct?" Dr. Warren asked.

"Right," I breathed. "I am in control. I call the shots from now on." I sighed in relief. "My entire life, I've felt like everything was falling apart and I had no say in it. But now I'm ready to get help and get out of this downward spiral."

"What do you mean by a downward spiral?" See, this is what psychiatrists do; they take whatever you say and turn it into a question.

"Like I said, things haven't been great. I haven't harmed myself in seventeen days, but that doesn't mean I haven't wanted to," I scratched my arm where my scars where subconsciously. "I have a really hard time sleeping. And mornings are terrible. I'm in pain when I get up. Yesterday was the worst. Today wasn't as bad, though."