During the darkest time in my life I struggled alone, trapped inside my head, not knowing how to get out. But, I eventually found that I was not the only one wearing a mask...
This is a completely true story starting 2 years ago on Valentine's Day w...
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February 14, 2016:
"I'm fine," I say as my therapist glares at me, taking no bullshit.
"You disassembled a utility knife to get the blade out and then used it during your Italian period."
Well, when you put it that way...
"And even that wasn't enough."
The room is quiet, the only sound is my unsteady breath. I look down at my lap, wondering if it is possible to regain some feeling in my body. No luck.
"When will it be enough, Sydney?"
I look up, not knowing what to say. I'm still trying to figure that one out myself.
I feel the tension growing as I continue ignoring her question. She leans back in her seat letting out a small sigh. She shuts her notebook and clicks her pen, throwing them onto a side table. She settles in her chair, legs and arms crossed.
"Promise me you won't kill yourself tonight."
Shit.
I hate it when she pulls this crap.
I want to promise her. I don't think I'm gonna kill myself tonight. I can almost guarantee it. But I can't promise it. I don't know where my mind will go tonight. I feel fine right now, but I don't know what I'll be feeling when I'm laying alone in my bed, waiting for my monsters to climb in with me.
"I mean, I don't think I will," I say, my voice shaking.
She shuts her eyes and squints her brows, letting her head drop down towards the ground. She shakes her head and looks back up at me.
"That's not a good enough answer for me."
She abruptly stands and grabs her phone from the desk.
"I'm going to make a few calls. I'm going to have to call your mom, too."
My heart drops.
I sit up on the couch, more confused than ever.
"What do you mean? Wait — why?"
She looks back at me with an expression I've never seen on her before. A mixture of sadness, pity, and disappointment.
She just stares at me for a moment and I suddenly regret everything.
"You're not going home tonight, Sydney"
I feel my eyes swelling until they start pouring uncontrollably, my face a blotchy red mess. I've never cried in therapy before; kind of backwards, I know. But all I could do was sob and beg her and tell her I was fine.
She had threatened hospitalization before. She said she's even driven patients to the hospital herself. I guess I just never thought that would be me. As I sit crying alone in the room while she's taking calls in the hallway my head starts to pound. This was never supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to be me. I was supposed to go to therapy and feel all better again. What went wrong?
