⚠️ This is a true story, unfortunately.
🖤1st in a series
✅Completed
I labeled this as teen "fiction" because my target age group usually thinks of self-help books or text books when they hear "non-fiction" and don't realize a memoir reads like a...
I was determined to figure out was wrong with me and cure it. To do this, I had to start from the beginning. I surprised myself by making a therapy appointment the day after I left Kiwi's and not procrastinating; my favorite pastime. I had to do it for him, even if I never saw him again and he never knew about it. I hadn't seen or heard from him since May. I know I told him to pretend I didn't exist, but deep down I was hoping he would ignore it and try to contact me anyway, even if I knew staying away was the right thing to do until I was making constant, solid progress. I deleted my Facebook because I couldn't bare to see if he had a girlfriend or anything he was doing in his life that I should've been there for. I'd also spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests, until enough time went by that I was sure no one was hiding in my spleen or wherever babies live.
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It took some extensive Googling but I managed to find Shannon, the same therapist that I'd seen all those years ago. She'd moved to a different practice in a different building on the other side of town...up the street from Dan's house, go figure. She'd gotten married and changed her last name, really making her difficult to find. I was afraid she'd make fun of me and tell me none of this would've happened if I'd have listened to her in the first place.
I'd been seeing her twice a week, since the end of May/beginning of June. My first appointment with her, I remember sitting on her couch and chain sucking lollipops to stop myself from crying, as I recanted the events of the past two years. I made sure not to leave out anything. I wanted to be completely honest, even though it made me look bad. I opened up to her with no reservations. She gave me her undivided attention, and wasn't shocked or horrified with my behavior. She understood and wanted to help me. It surprisingly felt good to tell the truth and attack myself. It felt good to do something wrong and know that it was my fault and not blame it on anyone else. That meant I could start to heal. I asked her if she remembered me, to which she admitted that she did. She said she remembered me because of the hot pink eye shadow and chains on my pants that I used to wear. I told her I needed to know how to cure this and I'd do whatever she said this time. I knew my mom and aunt took anxiety medication but they never acted the way I did, so I must've had a more severe case of it. I really knew nothing of Narcissistic personality disorder. I hadn't heard the word since she said it. We'd never even discussed depression before, so that was something shiny and new I had to add to my repertoire of fucked up. I remembered she'd given me those packets and I never looked at them...but I didn't throw them away either. I still had them shoved in a drawer at home and had completely forgotten about them.
The real blow came when she told me that none of those things could be cured. It was like an amputated appendage; I'd suffer from it for the rest of my life and all I could do was learn to live with it. I wished I could've had any other disease in the world. Anything was better than feeling like I was being ripped apart from the inside out but I just wouldn't die. I got no relief. Even with cancer, you have hope that you can fight it. You want to fight it because you have a chance to beat it and be cured. You don't have to be hopeless. It's not constantly feeling like your heart will explode, your body is on fire, your eyes will burst out of their sockets, and your joints are unhinged. Then, on top of all that deliciousness, you're constantly looking to be bigger than God himself and even if you convinced the whole world to worship you, it still wouldn't be good enough. Nothing is ever good enough, you're never satisfied. You bang your head against a wall every day until one day you realize the only relief you can get is death. The death resort is the best five star vacation you could ever book a trip for. It's exhausting trying to control everyone and everything all the time. It's unattainable. Death is the only thing you can count on. It's the only medicine that works every time.
