Overthinking

Doctor Rames

I like to think of myself as an intelligent person. I just wish the rest of the world would see that. They’re just too busy carrying their princesses of into the sunset with their happy ever after. But me? I’m just the maid.

I like to dream up instances where prince charming will come and turn me into a princess, but in fifteen years I’ve learned that there aren’t always happy endings. There are just happy points in the story that raise your expectations before they plummet right back down. Endings just mean death to me and death just means the end. After we have died, we become well known for about a week before we turn into a “remember her?” which turns into an “I think I remember her” which turns into a “…Who?” And just like that, you mean nothing with no legacy left behind. And all the things that you thought were so important before just aren’t anymore, and it makes it all just feel so stupid.

What’s the point of getting your prince charming? What’s the point of being a princess? Does it make you any better than anyone else? In the end, no one will care anymore. The people that you thought were your friends will just step in your place and steal your fame. We’re human beings. It’s just what we do.

I mean, sure, it makes you feel great that someone so great treats you like you’re so great. But maybe that’s why it’s just enough to make me, the over thinker, want prince charming to come just like everyone else. Some days I hate myself for thinking that way, but soon, it gets overridden and I tell myself, “shut up. It’s okay to make yourself happy.” Then when my brain gets too crowded to think, I get headaches.

My doctor says it’s just stress levels and that I need to stop overthinking. I try to respond to him all the time, try to convince him to take me off the meds, but like always, I can’t seem to open my mouth in front of people.

The sound of my voice is a mystery to mostly everyone. I wasn’t deaf or mute or anything, I just have an overwhelming fear of attention. My doctor always assures my mother that it’s just a phase and that I’ll get over it soon, thinking that I can’t hear him from between a closed door. “That’s it” I thought, “He thinks I’m stupid too. Great.” I wish I could tell him I’m really okay. I would jump up off of the uncomfortable chair and swing open the door yelling at the top of my lungs. “I’M OKAY.” I would walk out and tell the whole world what I think about Doctor Rames. But the thought of all of those people judging me, calling me nuts, overwhelmed me with agony and made me fidget in the ever-so uncomfortable chair.

School used to give me bad anxiety, but my mother would never let me leave, so I would just sit there silently chewing my lip to pieces (the doctor makes me take medicine for the sores too).

Coping with school has always been a struggle. I’ve learned that if you avoid people, keep your head low, and stay out of trouble, you can pretty much not exist to anyone else. I’ve learned to be okay with the fact that I have to eat in the bathroom and enter and exit the school through the back. Keep your head down. Keep walking. Avoid eye contact.

I’ve always been so thankful that I’m so short. High school feels so big from down here all the time, but it helps. People barely notice me. But it, like everything else in the universe, has its many flaws, the worst on being that I’m frequently shoved, pushed, and trample on. High School sometimes reminds me of a pack of dogs—fighting, oblivious, and I’m just the mutt. Although it sucks, you get used to it when you haven’t spoken a word to anyone else but your family in ten years.

Many people mock me for not being able to speak. “Just open your mouth,” they all say as if it was that easy for me. I’ve tried that before, but nothing comes out. It’s like I can feel their eyes burning me fiercely (and I know that sounded cliché, but I can’t describe it any more accurately than that). My throat feels like its closing in on me, and my breathing starts accelerating. It’s even worse when teachers try and force me to answer questions.

Because I don’t speak to my teachers, they either constantly pressure me into speaking, or they don’t even acknowledge my existence at all. To me, it's how it all should be. I guess you could say I'm happy with life I've chosen.