"I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired." His voice broke as he buried his head in his hands.
I watched intently. It felt nice for once not to be the fuck up. Of course, due to the fact that i'd never had to be the comforter in this sort of sit...
I'll start with some disclosures to cover myself. This story will feature possible triggers, i.e. drugs, alcohol, suicidal thoughts. If any of these things negatively impact you I would advise against reading this story.
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"Drugs ruin people's lives, Venus."
I hadn't been listening to him for a while. He couldn't tell me anything that I didn't already know. It had been drilled into me for years how bad everything I chose to do was.
The more people told me not to do something, the quicker I did it. There's something wrong with me, i'm perfectly aware of that. I've admitted it many times to myself in the bathroom mirror but I couldn't bring myself to tell him.
His room was so bland. It's like going to your 'white friend who believes in god's house for a plate of chicken.
Really fucking bland.
The walls were painted in an off white shade and the bookshelf was brown. I sat in a red chair that seemed to be hugging me opposite his desk. On one side of the room there was a window and on the other side there was a door. It felt like an episode of how to get away with murder except there was no murder and I don't actually go to college.
By now i'd zoned out completely. If i even tried to zone back in I wouldn't be able to. I seemed to be having an out of body moment. Sometimes if I lost myself in every single thought I had I could leave my body and watch myself from some top shelf in the room. I guess when I say it like this I can understand why I was in the room to begin with.
The best part about me is the I don't have a sob story. I guess if you asked the crackheads you find near the coles dumpsters why they were there they'd tell you something like "Oh I graduated top of my class but I had no money to go to college" or "My parents died when I was five and I got abused in foster care until the system threw me out at 18" even my personal favourite "I was shit at everything in school and I realised that instead of trying to make something of myself I could just live off welfare."
Sob stories make people feel bad for you. Duh that's why they're called sob stories. Man why doesn't my brain work properly. The truth is that I have no characteristics that make people go "wow that sure is Venus." I'm not bad at anything but i'm also not overwhelmingly good at anything. I had an average house, average friends, and an average family that would have done anything for me.
They still would I suppose but I couldn't look at my dad after knowing that every opportunity he gave me was a waste of time. I could've told him that when I felt like shit at 13 but I've always been a people pleaser. God I need to get out of my head.
He's still talking. Isn't therapy meant to help me with my problems. I've tried very hard not to roll my eyes, it's a bad habit. I used to get in trouble for it a lot. I guess that's one of the things that make me not so average. I think i'm doing a better job at therapy than this man.
"Mate, if I wanted to kill myself i'd be dead already." I said to shut him up. All I needed was to sit in silence with him observing my mannerisms until he came to a conclusion. He could tell me I need to go outside more, try believing in God, make amends with my family or maybe go to university. Just because someone says something doesn't mean you have to believe it.
"I'm gonna be honest, I wasn't listening to you. I think you talk too much. I'm not trying to be rude but I just don't think i'm ready for therapy right now."
He looked at me through the half moon of his stupid glasses. They made his face look oblong, I think i'd prefer if he wore circle ones.
"Why don't you need it?" He quizzed. Maybe this had finally switched on a light inside his brain that reminded him how to do his job.
"I'd classify right now as my rock bottom." I stated.
He frowned, looking down at the notebook that rested on his lap. Maybe it's just that I don't like the note of his voice. I'd prefer if it was deeper and less scratchy. Now i'm just being picky.
"You're pretty high for rock bottom."
I couldn't tell if he was making some shitty pun or if he just thought that my life wasn't that bad. It really wasn't that bad so I guess he was right. I let out a dramatic sigh before looking at the clock. I was meant to finish at three but I figured I didn't really need the remaining ten minutes.
"Times up. What's your conclusion?" I said while standing from the chair. He tilted his head at me as he folded over the page to his notebook, getting ready for the next fuck up.
"I can't help you until you want to be here." He spoke as if he held all the knowledge in the world. If he did I wouldn't know so maybe I was judging him too harshly. His words did make sense to me in some far off land of my brain but at that point I didn't want help.
I nodded at him before heading over to the exit. I didn't want him to hate me so I mumbled a barely coherent 'goodbye' before going.
The door opened into a hallway that was painted with the same off white shade and had knockoff picasso paintings stuck to the walls. I couldn't really complain, 'the old guitarist' was the only painting that could ever make me feel something. It wasn't one of the ones featured though so I guess that pissed me off.
I'd almost failed to notice the boy standing almost right beside the door, leant with a word search book on the wall. "It's your turn I guess. Good luck with him, I still don't know anything more about myself."
He looked at me with a slight frown. I liked his hair, it was a little bit long and a little bit curly. I would've hit on him if we had've been in any other place. Shrinks really kill the vibe.
"Last week I got to learn that Fentanyl has killed the most Americans." He said as he drew the book down from the wall. "Maybe you should keep coming."
With that he smiled and entered the room, shutting the door softly behind him. I noted that his voice was the correct note and definitely British. I'd never taken fentanyl, mostly because I didn't really want to die. Did the fact that the doctor told him that mean that he was taking it?
If i'm honest, I wish he'd never have told me that fact. American stats means nothing when you live in Australia.
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i can't really say welcome back because i have no successful books but basically this is a new story, i hope it sounds interesting, thanks for choosing to read.
