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It gets better

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She stares me in the eyes, like no look I have gotten before. Her eyes plead.
“Don’t do it anymore. Promise me.” My eyes search the floor.
“I promise.” She gave me a big hug to let me know it was okay. I put my jacket back on so others wouldn’t see. I went on with my day just like any other, sad, quiet and out of the way.
Why was I sad? Why am I sad now? Happiness seems so far away, a shrinking hole, getting smaller and smaller every passing minute. My stomach once filled with joy and excitement is filled with emptiness and yearning for something more. My skin, just a shortcut to temporary bliss. I am not good enough for my friends, my family, my parents, or me. I seem to let them all down.
I want an escape, a way to leave it all behind, a way to be happy. I mask my sadness with a smile, thats why she didn’t know.
I was writing an essay in my english class when a red slip was set on my desk.
The counselor's office bubble was checked. The anxiety started to get worse.
On the line that tells the time at which you are supposed to be there read: ASAP. I looked up at the teacher in the dead silence. He nodded for me to leave.
On the long walk down the white, silent hallways, my stomach fills up with panic, suffocating me, my lungs having trouble getting air. I open the door to the dim lighted counselor’s office.
“Come sit.” Ms. Lacey said. I sat without a word.
“Someone came in and told me about your arms. She is worried about you.” I trusted her, she is only making it worse.
“May I see them.” I roll up my sleeves to show the disrupted skin on my forearms, the cuts on both arms, covering them completely. She sat and looked at them, each time she passed over them her face grew more concerned.
“Why do you do this? What is the matter? Is there something going on at home?”
“No, nothing, but nothing seems to get better.” I say with a small voice.
“You have to tell your mom, or I will if you want.”
“No.” I say in my regular voice. “You can’t, I can’t. it will make it worse.” Ms. Lacey had turned around to hand me a piece of paper and a pencil.
“Here. Fill this out.” I sit and fill it out.
“It is awfully quiet. Should I put some music on? What would you like me to play?” I told her a song, she played it.
After I had finished the short survey I handed it back. She looked over the answers and made a conclusion.
“It looks like you have depression. I will call your mom and tell her to get you to a doctor so you can get treatment.”
“Don’t tell her about my arms. Please.”
“I won’t.”
“Thank you.”
It has been only a year since I was started on my medication. I am so glad she told Ms. Lacey, I hated it then, but now I am happy. It did get better, it always will.




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