One Story Too Hard

September 28, 2011
By Anonymous

We all have that one story, too hard to tell for many reasons most likely. My words don’t exclude me in the slightest, I just . . . well I have a different way of expressing it than others might. I’ll throw hints out if you pay attention and I get bored. That’s good if you catch them, or that I throw them out. Not so good if you do catch on. A person like the person I was (and maybe, hopefully not, will be) is not accepted well at all in society. There are people who would call us “attention grabbers” amongst a variety of other, less nice things.
Best thing is, though, is that for the longest of time nobody knew. Now that my parents and counselor knows, as well as some of my family on my Mom’s side I take it, a few people know. Worst thing is, is that it not only happened to me, but no matter how hard I think about it I couldn’t tell you what triggered it. Maybe it was my poor coping skills for life that slapped me in the face as soon as puberty hit. Maybe it was my inability to see a lesson out of my mistakes, and my mistakes being constant. It could be anything honestly.
But here’s what I’m almost certain about; I was depressed, I was addicted to self-injury or S.I., and I was suicidal. Notice I said “was” rather than “am”. Why; because I did the hard thing, mainly because I had no choice at that point, but I told. And told. And told. And told. Until my mom and dad knew, the people doing the basic evaluations knew, and my counselor knew. It’s still hard to talk about it. Anytime anybody gets on the subject of depression or suicide or S.I., I immediately get quiet. It irritates me to hear people joke about S.I. and call people suicidal as an insult. Funny, how that happens to the person who can’t say “gay” or “retarded” like most people use it. I don’t want to be part of the cause of death to people who are like that. I want to be the person who’ll talk them out of suicide. I’ve been down that route and let me tell you, I’m not going back. Talking about suicide here, not talking people out of it. Okay, so I’ve talked people out of suicide too, but that isn’t what I was getting at.
Thing is, I don’t know why I started getting depressed. My guess is keeping secrets to long caused the guilt, my insomnia made it worse, anxiety did not help, and my ADHD made sure to top it all off with the outcast and low self-esteem feeling I had. I can’t tell you much beyond the basics. It has been one month, two weeks, and four day’s since my parents found it. I blocked my depressed period out in twenty four hours, maybe even less. The day of the truth was terrifying, and it was highly unsuspected.
Here’s how it went:
1st period Math, 8:42 A.M;
I was sitting with my friend, Sarrah, when the office assistant came in and gave me the white slip. I had hoped that I would have never needed to get one; but I did. I looked at my teacher and she nodded. I got up nervously, heading oh so slowly towards the door. My thoughts were racing, my heart pounding in effort to beat my thoughts. I thought of everything. Was it my depression? I ruled that out as I walked down the hall towards the counselor’s office. Was it one of my friend’s problems that they needed me for? Yeah, most likely; so I moved my jelly legs one millionth of a step at a time.
Waiting outside the counselor’s office, 8:45 A.M;
The counselor was busy talking to one of the para-educators; at least I think that’s what she is. I hum one of the band songs, How to Train Your Dragon (must I say “Music from the Motion Picture”??) as I pace the library outside of the counselors office. I had Massed band today, it was in a matter of hours. We were set to leave as soon as we were done with lunch to set up at the High School just a block down the road. I look absent mindedly at the various selections of books, not paying any attention as to what I read or even picked up. My mind focused on what waited beyond that heavy brown door that stood between us, and on the back of my mind was the most important concert of the year. My legs were still jelly, my heart was still racing, and my mind was hardly going slow enough to make sense of anything.
It was just my story right? I mean . . . I could say that I just maybe got a little to into my characterization process.
I had created a character based off of me, she was a self-harmer and suicidal. I also threw in anorexia, a horrible past, as well as a large stack of things. I stopped signing my journal entries as my name, but switched to “Miranda Emily Sims”, the gothic, anorexic, “emo”, suicidal girl. My friend called me crazy and sick when she read the story, but Sarrah enjoyed it.
I had assured myself that it was my story. I had everything down, and I was ready for tough questioning.
Inside counselor’s office, 8: 52 A.M.;
He closed the door, and I nervously rolled up the slip in my hand for the umpteenth time. Looking down at it, I realized how gray it started to look from me rolling and unrolling it constantly. The counselor had balding gray hair, a wrinkly face worn with years of experience but looked confused. He was wondering where to start and I knew it instantly. A rock dropped like a lead weight into my stomach. I tore my gaze away and nervously looked around the room.
“BE SMART-DON’T START!” and other various anti-drug posters hung over the beige walls. I laughed quietly at his feeble attempt to make this boring jail cell seem like a normal room; all though, if you squinted hard enough, you might just be able to see that poster about the “Confidentiality Law”. I have heard it more than enough times to know what it reads, in a basic outline. “One person may ask for the right of confidence from their parent or guardian UNLESS they are talking about harming themselves or suicide. HOWEVER shall the person say that their parent or guardian is hurting them then you have every right to refrain from telling the parent or guardian however you will HAVE TO inform your local authorities.” Okay, so that is probably not exactly how it goes, but it’s me imitating the basic outline for you.
The counselor opened his mouth and said the one thing I had least expected to hear.
“I have had some complaints about you ‘cutting’ yourself.” He stated. He was treading into dangerous waters, I tell you. I had my act all ready.
Those fake looks of surprise that I have been practicing for months now? Check.
My story details memorized? Check.
Facial expressions down? Check and mate. Thank you, thank you very much.
“Do you know why they might say that?” He continued. Stutter, act surprise, don’t tense or lose eye contact. Control your voice.
“I . . . I have no . . . no idea,” I responded. Overload on the stuttering. God, am I stupid?
The counselor leaned back in his chair, confused. I knew it was a good time to bring up Miranda, my main character. I asked myself if I had all the details. Reason of the story; all royalties (if any) go towards To Write Love On Her Arms. The character in my story, Miranda, was a self-harmer, suicidal, and anorexic. Her life at home was terrible. She wanted to escape; that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The counselor looked at me again, saying my name and explaining how serious the accusation is. How scary and terrible it would be if it were true. I nodded every once in a while to show that I understand. He looked weary, but I knew that he was just doing his job.
He went on to tell me a story about a kid at one of the schools he used to work at. “He always joked about suicide,” he had said. Then, he explained the shocking truth; he went through with it. The parents sued everyone that knew for hiding the truth. I imagined that happening to my friends that knew, and shuddered.
All my sisters, they’re innocent! Everyone that knows, innocent! Don’t sue them, don’t blame them! I could imagine me screaming that, written in my death note. I kept my emotions looking as genuine to the naked eye as possible. If Cal Lightman had interviewed me, he would’ve known the truth in seconds. If I lied, he’d use intimidation. I knew it, and I kept picturing that too.
“As you can see, this is very serious. I, we, need to know the truth.” He stated, summing it up. I allowed the tears to well up in my eyes, faking the reason.
“It’s for my story . . . that’s all it has been; a story of hope for TWLOHA.” I stated, my voice shaking a little. Dead give-away, I told myself as I took a breath of deep air and controlled it.
He asked about TWLOHA and I explained it to him. It was well rehearsed. “To Write Love on Her Arms-or TWLOHA- is a non-profit organization that helps prevent suicide, self-harm, depression, and eating disorders.” Steady voice, don’t lose your story.

The counselor nodded slowly, as if taking it all in. I quickly launched into how the story ties into it. Miranda was, as you might label her, “emo”, yes. Miranda was also a beautiful girl, and nobody suspected her to be like that. She assumes that her recent break-up was what sets it off, but doesn’t care. Towards the end of her story she meets with death, but is brought back and sent into rehabilitation for her addiction to self-harm and her anorexia. Her family and friends are devastated, and she sees how loved she has always been. As I said that, I blushed. The ending sounded a whole lot more cheesy then how it actually was planned to be.

“So how does that relate to you?” The counselor asked. I looked down, knowing full well that this I had not expected. Charaterization, I realized after half a second. I was getting into character.

So I explained that to him, and he still looked confused. “I must just be getting a little too into character. I should drop that story now that I think about it.”

He nodded, asked me a few more questions about the story, than dismissed me saying that he’ll be calling my mom afterwards. I hesitated, wondering if I should ask who told him. I did as he handed me some Suicide Hotline numbers.

He looked at me, dead serious, and then replied. “Your mom did. She’s been really worried about you.”

Back in Math, 9:06 A.M.;

The bell was about to ring, so I just sat down and waited nervously. The pit in my stomach that was formed when I heard that my mom was the one who called the school had yet to leave. I tried my best to concentrate on the upcoming concert later that night.

Sarrah didn’t let me.

“Why’d you get called in?” She asked, turning around in her seat. I smiled slightly, and shrugged it off like it was nothing important.

“It’s . . . it’s nothing really. Don’t worry about it.” I said, and then mentally kicked myself. I just implied that there was something by saying not to worry about it.

In Band, 10:11 A.M.;

I get called back in as I was informed that my mom was here. I winced as I packed up, telling Maddy that she can take the music home if she needs to and to wish my luck. She looked at me odd, but I didn’t care as I turned to put my instrument in the back room. I took the time of isolation to pray to my God. I prayed for strength and courage, I knew I needed to tell. So I took a deep breath and left, holding a smile nervously on my face.

Back outside the counselors office, 10:13 A.M.;

I looked through the shades of the counselor’s office nervously, and gasped. My mom was in there, her face read and she was sobbing. I mean really, really sobbing. Worried tears, scared tears, devastated tears all ran down her face.

I stepped in hesitantly and immediately ran into my Mom’s lap. I assured her that it was just a little depression, nothing to worry about it. The word felt foreign as I said it. Depressed. I ran that word over and over in my head as I wrapped my covered arms around my mom in a tight hug. “I love you mom,” I told her. “I won’t die on you, trust me.”

I couldn’t trust myself when I said that. The lie stayed on my chapped lips like salt, it hurt. Pangs of guilt swept over me quickly. Lies! A voice in my head whispered. You know that that’s not true. You tried to take your own life!

I quickly told it to shut up.

Five minutes later, my mom was finally able to talk well enough that we could understand her. I looked down for the first time at the table and felt my stomach drop.

There they were what were later referred to as “the notes”. I had written many nasty things about wanting to take my life, how I was “my own kidnapper, abuser, and killer”, and even when I planned to die. I had forgotten about them, as well as the rest of everything I wrote. These were the tattle tale notes, a voice in my head hissed as I fought the urge to tear them up.

“Would you care to explain these notes?” The counselor asked politely. I stuck with my story, never leaving my mom’s lap. I was just a little too over enthusiastic in creating Miranda, remember? My Mom didn’t buy one second of it, and even stated that these were too real.

The counselor agreed as he skimmed the notes. He explained to me that these were, what looked like to be, suicide notes. I wanted to scream “No duh smart one! What else would they be, poems about rainbows and unicorns?”

The counselor then asked to see my arms. I gulped; the last time I “cut” was about a week ago at that point, so the injuries were faded a little but still visible. I felt naked showing them the battle field that rested so violently on my wrists. My mom didn’t notice them, but the counselor did. He outlined one so my mom could see what she was looking at. I started to panic, knowing that I can’t use “it was the cat” excuse, seeing as I hardly ever go near the cat. I couldn’t use the “oh, those are there? Did not notice them” excuse, they were to numerous and besides, “the notes” referred to them plenty. What did I say?

“Oh, I got these in the woods.” We have some woods out behind out house, which I occasionally visit. Anyone could tell with one look that those injures were recent, and my Mom knew that I hadn’t been in the woods recently. I cursed my lame story in my head, but I hadn’t rehearsed that part. I had rehearsed the truth, and that was it.

My Mom broke down again. We went over some stuff, none of which I can remember, and I swore (or as I like to say, took the Unbreakable Vow) not to self-injure again. I was henceforth allowed to leave as my Mom started to grab her stuff. Band was about to end, so I headed off to Gym. Sure enough, as I reached the doors, the bell rang.

Lunch time, 11:01 A.M.;

I was shaking; we were to leave to set up for the concert in a matter of minutes. At least, that’s what I told everyone I was nervous for. Honestly I was nervous to admit to it tonight. The very thought of it made my legs shake like Jell-O again. I cursed myself for letting myself get this far under, for not telling when I was supposed to. I cursed myself again and again, but I let that nervous smile remain purely about band.

There was nothing to worry about on that front though. I had performed plenty, and this time with a larger band it would be nothing. If you missed a note, only the highly trained ears could tell; and not meaning to brag, but I hardly, if ever, miss a note. As you know, I was nervous for something else. I had to tell, and I knew. I was personally praying that the concert was extremely long, or that something would go wrong that would make us wait to finish it.

I remember looking down at my striped sleeves and sighing. My concert would be nothing to worry about, but what lay underneath my sleeves would be. I dreaded the end of the concert, and slowly ate lunch as if it would put it off. My friends questioned me, asking why I was so nervous. I said nothing but “the concert” and then dropped the conversation.

By the time it was break, we were to leave. I was rushing to grab my stuff, and conveniently didn’t grab my homework. I was late, but my flute buddies stayed behind with me. Smiling through the butterflies, I walked down the block to the High School.

High School band room, 11:48 A.M.;

“Drop your stuff.” A familiar voice behind me commanded. I turned and smiled, my older flute buddy. I dropped it and we hugged.

I laughed and asked how she was doing. Blah blah blah the normal “Hey I haven’t seen you in a while we HAVE to catch up!” crap. We laughed at Caitie’s exasperation on how ugly she is and helped her. I lent her my head band, and Krystal lent her her hair tie. We quickly fixed her outfit, and complained about how her white socks clashed with the black dress and shoes.

She refused to take them off and, in due time, we went to help set up.

Dinner at the Commons, 5:28 P.M.;

So practice was the usual boring self, and showing the other schools to the Auditorium/Gym was boring as well. Caitie was dreaming about the hot guy from one of the other schools, and they soon exchanged phone numbers. I laughed at her silly self.

Dinner was boring, at the butterflies never left. They grew exponentially instead as time wore on. I wished I could control time, backing up to this morning where I hid all the notes and hide them under my pillow instead so I wouldn’t have to do this. I slowly poked at my dinner (hamburger with pop and starbursts). Krystal went home with the rest of the high schoolers, and my best friend was grounded so she couldn’t come (to the concert OR the phone apparently). I had no one to talk to, to confide in; nobody in the entire school knew about the depression. My best friend lived in the district but went to online school, and the other people that knew lived hours away. Besides, I couldn’t reach them on the phone.

The concert was in one hour, and the air was buzzing with anticipation. I ran around, laughing and screaming at another one of Caitie’s crush for calling her . . . rude names shall we say? I faked a smile and carried on through the concert like a brave soldier.

Concert, 6:30 P.M.;

Everyone was seated properly; a band was up first playing whatever song they were playing. Once they were done, they rotated bands, and rotated bands, and rotated bands. Finally, we were up next, being 3rd to last. I grabbed Electricity (the piece that we were playing), and my flute, and headed up there. These bands’ songs were too quick, and it didn’t help that my friends and I criticized the notes that they were missing between us. We were up, and as we sat down the audience quieted politely.

Our band director stepped up to the podium; rest position, flute on knee and sit up straight. He brought his arms up; instruments up, get ready to play. I fingered a C on the flute (first finger, pinky), and blew sharply into it as the song started with a bang. The band rushed through and I shifted with anticipation at my favorite part, blackout, at measure 104. When it came, all the lights went off except for the center light, and the band director turned on his black light to highlight his gloves. The crowd stood up and cheered, and from the corner of my eye I could see flashes of cameras going off. I laughed, knowing that pictures could not imitate this moment. A video, maybe; but not pictures.

Finally, we got to play again. Start with a low A flat (thumb one two three and both pinkies). It was slow, but beautiful and suspenseful. The type of beauty and suspense a blackout brings during a storm. I was into the song, and we had maybe sixty more measures left. We played through it amazingly, and at the end the crowd was back up on their feet if I am allowed to brag.

We sat back down with the massed band while the rest of the bands played their piece, and thus started the massed band concert. Each band had their turn showing off, and now to act as one sound.

After the concert, 8:42 P.M.;

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting for the dismissal to, for the traveling bands, to their busses; and for us, to the band room. Caitie squealed over her crush while I just walked nervously and quietly through the crowded hallway to the band room. I settled down after putting my flute away and grabbing my clothes from earlier so I could wait for Caitie to hand me back my head band. The butterflies grew again and my palms started to sweat. I walked around and talked to my friends until they had all left. I finally found my way to the push doors of the band room.

The ride home was an uncomfortable silence, almost tense but there was something else. I know my mom was scared that it really was true, but she knew that it wasn’t just Miranda. I had fooled the counselor, but parents are harder to fool. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me as the old saying goes. I have fooled everyone once, and now here’s to round two.

Home, 9:13 P.M.;

“I’m tired; can I go take a shower?” I complained. My mom shook her head, saying that they’d talk to me in a few minutes. There goes procrastination plan A, now on to plan B. “Can I at least have some tea to calm my nerves?”

My mom agreed to that. Plan B worked, which was good because I didn’t have a plan C. I smiled and retrieved some Chamomile tea from the pantry and went to get some hot water. I slowly got into my pajamas as the tea seeped, carefully getting every little detail right.

Now for telling them.

I knew that nobody would fall for the same story I used for my counselor; I mean I fooled them before, who’s to say I can fool them again? I couldn’t come out straight and admit it. Yeah, because “hey mom and dad I tried killing myself and I cut” is going to be the easiest thing in the world. There was one other way, just one. I still shuddered at the fact of telling them.

So I sat down and, while sipping my tea, I wrote them a letter.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I love you guys, I honestly do. I am so so so so soooo sorry for not telling you two earlier. Just remember that none of this is your fault, and that I have always loved you. It’s just that, well, everything you read was true. It has nothing to do with the story.

I am depressed, and I’m still battling that. I have been for quite a while now. Nobody has noticed, so I don’t blame you for not noticing.

Yes, I have also “cut”.

Yes, I have also tried killing myself. I tried drowning myself a lot, and I sometimes wished for a blade to end it all.

And also, yes; I have had a boyfriend. His name was Chase, and I never did like him. Now that I think about it . . . I have no idea why I dated him.

Anyways, none if it is your fault. It’s mine, all mine; mine for not telling you earlier, mine for letting myself sink in this deep, it’s my fault.

I love you guys, and I am so sorry.

And I signed my name, as I looked at it. No need for changes, they’ll catch what you’re saying. Now go, they have been calling you for the past ten minutes. I told myself.

Parents’ Bedroom, 10:11 P.M.;

There were the butterflies again, sinking like a rock in my stomach. I stepped in nervously through the door, clutching my tea tightly. I could see my hand shake just like I could feel it. My legs were shaking terribly too. I had already handed them the note, all carefully and neatly folded into thirds. Sitting at the end of my parents’ bed, knees to chest and tea clutched tightly in my hand, I gulped nervously. My Dad was leaning over my Mom’s shoulder, reading each and every word intently, just like my Mom. Their faces shown with disbelief and pain; how could this have happened to their first born daughter, the one who’s always so happy?

After what seemed like forever, they finished the letter. I don’t know how many times they read it, whether just once was all they need or if they re-read it multiple times in disbelief. However times they read the letter, though, did not stop a new emotion showing clearly on their pain etched faces- shame. Maybe they were ashamed that they couldn’t have spotted it before. Maybe they were ashamed that I did fall into that. Maybe they were ashamed of themselves, thinking that they were terrible parents. Guilt would’ve came to that, to most of them actually. What was running through their heads I can’t say.

“ . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say . . .” My Mom finally spoke. Her voice was still strained and cracked, as if she were trying hard not to cry. Maybe she cried all the tears she already needed to. They questioned me.

Why did you lie? Why did you do this? When did you do this? What did you use? They asked all the basics and more. After a long bout of questioning and lecturing on dating, I was free to go; and I had no choice on whether or not I’d stay home from school the next day, I wasn’t going to go. That was that, and that is all that mattered. I dreaded staying home, and for the first time since fifth grade, fought for my right to go to school. I didn’t want to face my parents more then I already had to. I admit it; I was ashamed, I was full of guilt and regret. I didn’t want to face the fact that I was, I wanted to run away from my issues once more.

I fell asleep that night with a tear stained face.

Tuesday, May 22, 2011
My room, 9:02 AM

I woke up. The sun was shining brightly through my window. I smile and look at the clock. Panicking, I thought for a second “crap! I missed the bus, and I’m going to be late to school! WHY DIDN’T ANYONE WAKE ME UP?!” Then I remembered the night before. The confessions and the tears, the letter and the notes, the summons to the counseling office and the concert; I remembered everything. I looked at my mark covered arms in dismay.

Why the heck did I do that? Why the heck did I cut, did I try to kill myself? This isn’t human nature; this isn’t me. Why did I allow that to become me?

Anger, guilt, shame; all emotions I felt at once. One alone can be stressful, all three together . . . well let’s just say I hope you have a good lawyer. Nah, I’m only kidding . . . I hope . . . they can just be overwhelming. So, as I lie in bed I wonder the typical question: why me? I felt weak but strong, vulnerable but yet not. The emotions were playing tricks on my brain, and I knew it. I couldn’t tell right from wrong at that point. All I knew was that I was going to have to face my Mom in a few minutes.

I roll out of bed oh so slowly and make my way to the dresser. I took me, oh I don’t know . . . five minutes maybe to put together and throw on a random outfit. Those five minutes seemed eternal though. I spent the entire time wishing the impossible; that I could “pull a Kelsey Jayne” and go back in time. (Just so you know Kelsey Jayne is a character in one of my favorite books I’m writing). I wished that I could redo that night before; or even better yet, that night that I started-at least admitting it. November 11, 2010. That was the date. I wished that I could just go back and tell myself to stop, to put the blade down; but that is oh so impossible, right? I clenched my jaw as I looked at my outfit.

Purple, my least favorite color; not that I have anything against it; I just simply don’t like wearing it. It looks terrible on me in all honesty. I shook my head and threw a beige vest over it. Odd image, right? The purple was more faded then anything, so the vest gave it a more vintage look. I spent another five minutes looking for a necklace and putting it on. I usually don’t care what I look like, but here’s to procrastination!

Slowly, I walked out the room. Time to face my doom.
The kitchen, 9:41 AM

My Mom was sitting there, staring at her laptop and eating a bowl of cereal while my one year old sister sat in the highchair eating her breakfast. Careful to avoid eye contact, I walk to the kitchen to grab some breakfast for once. When do I eat breakfast honestly? Oh well, best to avoid suspicion; the slightest oddity and she’ll be all over me, constantly asking if I’m okay and what not. As I said, best to avoid suspicion.

Two bowls clanged against each other, causing the air to ring with the sound. I wince, so much for being silent. I quietly snuck back down and drew the corners of my lips back to an “oops” look. My mom looked up, pain still deep in her expression. This is what I wanted to avoid. This is what I didn’t want happening. In all honesty though, I was surprised they didn’t up and cart me off to some rehabilitation center, or a mental hospital for my dangerously low depression; but at the same time at the moment I kind of wished that they did. I admit that I was chicken to face my parents. Adrenaline was pumping rapidly through my veins every time they started a conversation. What now, I would ask myself, my defense raised.

My Mom opened her mouth and spoke.

“Morning sunshine,” She had said. “How’d you sleep?”

I responded with a shrug. “You?”

“Couldn’t sleep, I spent the whole night worrying about someone. I wonder why…?” She shot me a playful look and I apologized. “You have a doctor’s appointment today.” She informed me.
I sighed, annoyed. I wish they’d just forget this. I mean, in my opinion, the less people that know the better; right? Who wants to, with one glance of someone that knew you cut, be labeled “emo” because of the pain you suffered? Who wants to be labeled anything in the first place?
The waiting room, 11:14 AM

A tense silence filled the space between my Mom and I. She kept chasing my little sister around the waiting room as she crawled anywhere and everywhere she could. I sat in a corner, huddled up with music blaring through my headphones. Not Evanescence- unfortunately I was banned from listening to anything “depressing”, set forth by my parents. No Evanescence, I thought; got it. Avril Lavigne then, I smiled half-heartedly, wishing that I could have Tourniquet or Everybody’s Fool playing instead of Sk8er Boi or My World. I don’t have anything against them, it’s just . . . a dramatic change from my favorite band (Genre: Goth Rock) to Avril Lavigne (Genre: Punk Rock. . . I think . . .).

We were in the waiting room already for a half hour, my appointment was supposedly at noon, but welcome to my doctor’s office. Well, I can’t change anything about that, so I just waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .

The nurse finally came and called me back. I nervously got up and my Mom followed. I looked at her like really? She informed me that she was going to go back, for at least some of the time. She had brought the dreaded notes to show to my doctor. I winced and wished that she would just burn them. Toss them in the fire and watch the paper curl up into ashes. I wish she would just do that. At that moment, though, she had them; and she was going to come with me to show my doctor them. I couldn’t help but recoil.

I was slowly led to the room that the doctor was waiting in for me.
Inside the doctor’s office, 11:23 AM

The doctor greeted us with a warm smile and firm shakes of hand. I return the smile, as does my mom. My little sister laughs, breaking the ice between all three of us. We laugh too, but laughing felt odd. The silence was still thick with being so tense. The doctor motions us to sit down and she asks my Mom and me a few questions. It didn’t take long for my Mom to start sobbing again, causing another sharp stab of guilt piercing my stomach.

The doctor said that she didn’t need to read the notes. My Mom was quickly dismissed and the doctor turned her attention to me.

“How do you feel right now?”, “What caused this?”, “Are these true?”; she asked all the basic questions. It was irritating. I was ready to scream at her and say that that was the past, why can’t I just step into the future and we forget all of this? She sat back, reading my medical records intently, editing them occasionally, and sighed.

“I don’t think you’re depressed.” She stated. “You might have a little bit of anxiety, but no depression.” Her expression was serious. I recalled a poem I read somewhere, making my blood boil.

I guess I was making a big deal of nothing. I guess I was just over exaggerating. I started hating myself; and she was basically telling me that all the pain was normal. I started hating her; I wanted to rip her head off. I wanted to scream that when you resort to self-harm, when you see no reason to live any longer, when you try killing yourself; odds are, its depression. I wanted to tell her that she can’t tell me it’s not. She told me, however, that she isn’t a psychiatrist and her diagnostic isn’t official.

“All I see is low self-esteem issues, maybe some anxiety; but other than that you’re a pretty normal teenager.” She had stated, than gave me some suggestions for medicine to help with my insomnia. Ticked off, I took it with a smile. I can’t be mean to anyone honestly, not really anyways.

The car, 11:59 AM

My little sister was already buckled up and ready to go, so was my Mom. I got in the car, carefully laying my denim purse on my lap before buckling up. Mom was eager to know what the doctor had said. I told her the “diagnostic”, the medicine for the insomnia, and that we could look into counseling. Shifting uncomfortably with having such an open conversation with my Mom, I pulled out the paper the doctor had given me and my iPod.

Slide to unlock. Enter passcode, 1179. Music going, check; my Mom tells me to keep one headphone out and I instantly get nervous. What now? Do we really have to discuss anything now?

I did as she asked but grabbed the Barnes and Noble sack from earlier today and shuffled through it. Angel, Beastly, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows; got them all. I grabbed for Angel, the latest book in the Maximum Ride series and opened it. I was practically drooling over it, it was a must get. I had the money, I got the book, and I am going to obsess over the book until I finished it. That was several days after I got it by the way. You’re safe.

“Put the book away . . .” my mom said with a sigh. I hesitantly did so. What now, I wonder. What don’t you know, what do you want to know?
I look out the window, watching the doctor’s office pull away. I couldn’t help but long to want to go back to yesterday, stay home and face the anger of the band members (to many to name) than face the disappointment the was creased into my Mom’s face. I never wanted to tell for this reason; the way that people would look at me, talk to me, think about me; it would change too much too fast. My friends that knew-they were the people who did everything they could to help people like me.
I looked back at Mom.
“Mom . . . I’m sorry . . .” I choked out. I didn’t know what else to say.

The author's comments:
Touchy topic, don't read if stories of depression and self harm is a trigger.

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