Archeia's Atheneum (The First Shift)

Episode Seventeen: Finding Kin

73 AA3

A droning siren blares throughout the factory. Break time was over and for once I was happy about it. I didn't make an effort to socialize, I ate my meal in silence, distanced from reality. I was alone with my thoughts, which was the last thing I wanted today. That day I had an appointment; that day I would meet with my fourth therapist for the first time. Isn't it odd how the sick are plagued by their cure?

I already knew what to expect, and that was what I loathed about it all. I would enter the new room and the therapist would show me to a chair or couch. I would take a seat while he or she organized their papers, and they would bring their eyes up to me, study my appearance for a second before they began the introduction. They introduce themselves as doctor so-and-so. I follow the routine and introduce myself despite the fact that they already know who I am. Then they ask me why I'm here, to which I bullshit "I need help." We'll go on with that and similar topics until they say that our time is up, we'll shake hands and make the next appointment. The bullshit continues, and it will continue that way until they see that we're just going in circles. They'll confront me about it, and that will be my queue to move on; I'll leave and start the process anew. I would have stopped with all this a while ago if it had not been court ordered: it was the only way I could keep out of the hospital. If I was smart I would have broken down sooner; society will always empathize with the young, I would have been forgiven and forgotten in no time. Now it's different: they can make money off me now. I can pay for medication, tests, and above all, therapy. Though I hated it, anything was better than going back to the hospital; time seems to stop there, but the adult life is entirely based on time. Get to work on time, pay your bills on time, I have no time to lose time. I wish it had all happened when I was younger when life only required the present moment.

Regrets are for the regretful though, and all I can do now is move forward. So that's what I do, I scrape by with my job at the factory, I buy my meds, I go to my appointments. I keep moving, and I try not to think about it. Usually, I find solace in my meal brakes: as working the line reminds me of the state of my life, and how much I despise it. On this day though, the break reminded me that the appointed time loomed closely. I needed a distraction, thus I was more than happy to embrace the discomfort of the line. Time always seems to flow contrary to how it suits you; that day of work was the fastest I had experienced in a long time. The siren blared and soon those working the shift were on their way home. I stood outside of the factory for a minute or two, postponing the inevitable.

Later at the bus stop, I was waiting with a group of people who took the same ride--some of whom worked with me at the factory. I knew they wouldn't bother me; by now everyone (but those obligated) knew to leave me be. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an asshole--just a tad abrasive. I don't want people talking to me; poking and prodding me--I want them to ignore me. Besides, given the state of my society and the people within, perhaps ignorance is bliss. Those who know me even slightly might speculate that I'm disconnected or disenchanted with humanity, but maybe the problem is that I had too much of a connection; over enchanted, one could say. I ignore humanity like one would ignore a child in a constant tantrum, you can try all you like but you'll never truly succeed, deny it as you will.

Once the bus arrived and all those riding were "happily" seated, I attempted to ignore the screaming child. Even plugged into my genre mashed MP3, a screaming child is something seldom tolerated, although, one can still pretend. So that's where I am: in a state of constant false tolerance, and I think perhaps this kind of tolerance is kin to torture.

The bus ride lasted for about an hour (which was generous considering the traffic), and by the time I reached my destination, the sun was about ready to end its cycle, with another monotonous day following it. While trudging to the nearby medical complex, I tried to console myself with thoughts of familiarity; remembering that I had been to this complex before. It was, in fact, the place where I visited my previous therapist. I remembered our last visit, I remembered how short it was. She began by apologizing; such beginnings almost always prelude change--whether it be positive or negative. She told me that she did not have what it took to help me and although this sudden change would set me back some, in the end, I would be better off. As if she could predict such a thing. I remained confused until she explained that another therapist had taken an interest in my case, and even if the request was unorthodox, the convenience could not be ignored. At first, this hurt me: I had been abandoned once more, but I soon suppressed it, telling myself that it was the last time I would trust a medical professional. I forced myself into a state of numbness and was soon amerced in a comfortable disconnect while I waited for her to place my next appointment. It would have been Ideal to just stop with it all at this point, but once again, when you enter suicide watch you never really leave, and I find myself in these situations time and time again.