Snatched (On Going) I'm Sorry---have Been Extremely Ill---will Update Soon

ONE.

        The walls were a sickly green. The kind of green that makes you uncomfortable due to the serious resemblance to vomit. A sun bleached bouquet of fake flowers set on the table next to my chair in a blue and white China vase. The once vibrant reds, blues, and yellows faded to a washed out pale pink, a nearly white shade of blue, and an only just detectable yellow in the petals of the faux sunflowers. The floor was linoleum and caused your shoes to make squeaky noises as you stepped across it.

      A squat cheerful lady sat behind the sliding glass window in a bright pink dress. Her long blonde hair twisted into a tight knot behind her head with a small blush colored bow attop her bun. The name tag on Her bossum said "Bethany." Her plump lips were painted with the exact shade of pink as her dress and her eyeshadow was a bright sky blue that clashed horribly with the dress and  that lipstick. She cleared her throat as she tried to make small talk with me. "How are you today, dear?"

     I did my best to hide the fact that I wanted to roll my eyes into next week, and put on my best fake cheery smile. "I am alright, how are you?" Her eyes widened a bit and she deflected my question, "Just alright?" Once again I took a moment to keep my eyes from seeing my brain. She did this every time. Every single time. "Well, if I was doing amazing I wouldn't be here would I?" I said a bit harshly and instantly regretted it. Her deeply penciled in eyebrows knitted closer together and she tried to hide her obvious annoyance. She didn't say anything else.

      I slid back into my usual routine of staring at the clock on the wall. It ticked in an almost mocking way. My mind began to drift off. I had not expected to be spending most of this year in this God awful doctors office but.. therapy was about the only thing that kept me from following along with those intrusive thoughts I had every morning about driving off the bridge and ending it all. I never told my therapist about that but I thought she may have had an inkling about it.

   I heard the soft click of a door strike separating from the strike pad. "Emerson?" A tall brunette with vividly purple scrubs called in a soft singsong voice. I sighed a little and stood up. My feet drug slightly across the linoleum flooring. I walked into the back of the office where the nurse was holding the door ajar for me. "We just have to go through the usual paces." She said writing in my chart. My head was beginning to throb, a dull ache behind my eye. I tried to focus on my breathing as she began to ask me the routine questions. "Emerson, would you say in the last week your depression has happened: everyday, once or twice, or not at all?" I closed my eyes because my brain felt as though it were slowly building up to an explosion. So much pressure.

       The obvious answer was that I was drowning in self hatred every second of every day. My mind was climbing the walls of the inside of my skull. Begging to get out. Begging me to let go. Instead, I said, "Once or twice." I always gave this answer. No matter how bad it was. I kept my eyes trained  about an inch above her shoulders. I never make eye contact with people. It makes my skin crawl. "Do you still smoke?" "Yes." I let out an audible noise of agitation. I have been trying to kick this habit like a dodge ball for months but something always brings me back to my mistress Nicki. "Do you drink?" "Hardly ever." Which was 100% true. I didn't much care for alcohol. "Smoke or do any illegal substances?" "Nope." Once again, completely true. My head is a bad enough place without being forced to experience the crippling anxiety I get from using. She asked me a few more questions like if I felt like I was in danger at home, was I a danger to myself or anyone else..etc..

    After she asked me everything she could she took my temperature and blood pressure. Then she stood up and motioned for me to follow her. She walked me down a hallway that had funny little posters on the walls,  and cartoon drawings of children seeing the doctor. She walked into room 22, my therapists room. I don't know why she escorted me back there because I had been here so often since my incident last year that I was surprised my footpath wasn't literally etched into the floor.

     I sat down in my normal chair, I never actually sat in the one in front of my therapists desk. I was looking at all the strange nic-nacs on her shelves and quotes she had strewn around her office. There was a candle burning. I leaned closer to it to give it a sniff. I inhaled deeply as the scent of french vanilla tickled my nose. It wasn't too strong but it made me feel calmer. The scent of Vanilla always reminded me of my grandmother. I inhaled again breathing in the smell deeply.
     
     I sat there waiting patiently and then I twisted my hair around my finger and my hand worked its way up to my bare eyes. I ran my index finger across my bottom lid, feeling for a stray eyelash. I found a thick one and pulled. I felt the gentle tug as my lash separated from the skin. I smiled to myself and then was filled with annoyance at my own failure. Again.
 
        Why can't I stop? I have been a trichotillomaniac since I was 6 years old. It is a constantly gnawing at me, urging me to pull. Urging me to follow my rituals. I almost always listen. I was running the hair along my lip vacantly staring at a poster that said, "Why fit in when you were born to stand out?" It was a quote by Dr. Seuss. The poster had those funny multicolored fluffy trees in all different colors. That is when I heard a knock at the door and saw it open slowly.