The Lies We Told On Thursday Nights

7. Thursday Evening: Vulnerable Decisions (Levi)

Hi everyone!

So, this is another Thursday Chapter, but this time Thursday evening (which there will be one more Thursday Evening with Emrey and then the meeting. I know, at least for the first week's Thursday.

I'm sorry this is a day late, and I don't have Emrey's chapter up, but I was a bit busy yesterday.

Let me know if you'd like me to do Emrey's chapter today, tomorrow or next week (I assume today, but we'll see!)

Thank you, guys.

I really really hope you guys are enjoying the story. Well, without further ado:

Levi

Thursday- 5:15 p.m

"Mom" I hollered from the front door, anxious to go to my appointment.

Today's occurrences were giving me a headache. I could not get their cheering out of my head and Zeek's embarrassed look.

Too many things happened today, but luckily today was one of the three times a week I got to flood my feelings.

"What?" my mom yelled back annoyed. Not taking a moment to see what was wrong.

She never pays attention.

"We have Dr. Georgia," I reminded her. She often forgets about my therapist or just tries to deny I need one.

There was a moment of silence as I heard papers ruffle and her five hundred dollar chair roll back.

"Oh, did I not tell you?" she sounded apathetic.

She stuck her head out of her study. Her authentic Italian glasses clipped her nose; her expensive tie was loose (her way of differentiating home from work.)

Her hair was tied tightly as usually and her face cleansed with makeup and botox.

The fake sympathy she wore all too well told me something was up.

"I canceled your meetings with her," my mom seemed indifferent as if it didn't matter.

I furrowed my eyebrows, my heart skipping a beat.

"What?" I shouted at her, my voice echoing in our large yet empty home.

My mom bit her lip momentarily, as if, just for a second, she regretted her choice.

But then the phone began to ring, and her attention drifted back into her self-centered world.

With an impatient certainty she said: "Well, you've been doing very well. I hardly see the use of the person anymore."

Not giving me a chance to respond, she slammed the office door, pulling the blinds for good measure.

Pissed, I kicked my mom's well-nurtured plant that stood near the entry to the living room.

The pot was imported from god knows where, but all I know is it's hard as cement and hurts like hell to kick.

My toes have grown acquainted to the harshness, both through football and my emotion-releasing habit of kicking the Kentia palm plant.

I kept kicking it, hoping either the pot would break and my mom's treasured plant will whither (no offense to the plant), or I will break my toes so maybe my mom would talk to me.

Maybe she'd realize I wasn't alright. And that she was wrong. I needed my therapist.

How does she have the right to say I'm fine if she hardly takes the time to ask how my day is?

I wanted to yell at her and say I am not alright. She just assumes that I'm okay simply because I'm not laying in a pool of my own blood.

Because believe me. I was not okay.

Trying to suppress the urge to scream at her, I simply nodded.

She does not understand me, or furthermore, she doesn't even care about me.

However, instead of screaming, I stopped kicking and slowly shuffled up the stairs to my room

I knew, once again, I'll be battling these demons on my own.

As I collapsed in my desk chair, an idea dawned on me. Or rather a memory I'd been trying to avoid.

I remember at the psychiatric hospital; the discharge team advised I join a teen mental health support group.

Of course, everyone in town knew me and appeared before others were inevitably going to destroy me.

But, the discharge team was pretty serious, and up until now, their plan had helped. They convinced my parents to do a few things that have actually improved my life. The team told my parents to lay back on football, let me get professional help, and finally, don't insult me.

Therefore, begrudgingly I googled the furthest group that is still in my district.

As the google was spinning, a gnawing feeling grew in my stomach. This was a bad idea. There was no way I would fit in. I'm not mentally ill, mentally ill people are outcasts. Furthermore, I did not deserve a "support group." I hate the idea of other people my own age, many who have grown to hate me, to find out my story.

I hate this, I hate-

The page loaded. There were four weekly groups in my area. Two in my neighborhood, one in the town over (yet still in my school district) and one in the outskirts of our city.

I zoomed in on the map at the little red blob in the middle of the strangely named town.

It was a good hour away...an hour away from my school district, from the people I know....possibly far enough away not to be seen.

The sessions were every Thursday at 7:30 p.m and lasted roughly an hour.

7:30....I peered at the clock--it was 5:28.

My mind began calculating traffic hours and how vulnerable I would appear.

If I leave now, I will be there by 6:45.

If I tell people my story--I will be weak.

If the freeway isn't backed up, I can stop and get some burgers.

If I tell people about my suicide attempt, they'll laugh at me because I'm "not the type."

A hollow ringing sound shook me from my panicked state. It rung a few times-- signaling it was half past 5.

It was now or never.

I grabbed my bag and hit the road.

Thank you guys so much! Stay brave and kind! Talk to you guys again soon! So amazing by all the views on this story (even though it doesn't have as meant views as "Why We Laugh" feel free to check it out though.)