Crazy Beautiful
The Night The Sky Fell Down.
December 2007-January 2008—choices were made for me and I did stupid things—in other words, when shit hit the fan. For the longest time I never thought doing harm to myself was something I would actually ever do. I thought it was stupid, till I did it that first time. I did two things to myself, I would cut and then I would flick rubber bands on my arms. I cut only deep enough to break skin, but never deep enough to leave scars—I learned that scars only cause people to ask questions I didn’t want to answer. I could only hide so many lines beneath my watch or my bracelets. Welts, well those just disappeared, but I still got that initial sting. That was something I did every night after I came home from work for about six months.
I was forced to go to the doctors in January—to my primary care physician and a therapist. Both of which were forced on me by my mother. Then, I couldn’t say I was glad she did what she did, I actually hated her for it. I thought I had it under control; I was doing fine (by my own terms). A few days later I found myself sitting on an exam table in one of the rooms at the doctor’s office. They knew why I was there, you can’t make an appointment without telling them why—I hated the looks I got from the lady who was at the sign-in desk and the nurse that came to get me. The only person who didn’t send me a pity look was my Doc. He merely asked the ques he needed answers to and then found me a few analyses I had to take. I scored pretty high—you didn’t want to score high on these kinds of tests though. That’s the day I was given anti-depressants; pills that have made my life hell for the past two years.
One Doc appointment down, one more to go; I hated the thought of sitting in a room and talking about my feelings to someone I didn’t know. I thought it was stupid. I learned quickly how good I was at lying (despite the fact I despised liars). I would tell her (my therapist) that the meds were working and it took me four months of visits till I finally broached the subject I’d been dancing around—my ex. I talked about him for ten minutes and then the rest of my session was spent talking about work. I hid behind work, it was a stressor she said, and I used that to my advantage. She never pushed for topics and I never really gave her much of a choice.
I was forced to go to the doctors in January—to my primary care physician and a therapist. Both of which were forced on me by my mother. Then, I couldn’t say I was glad she did what she did, I actually hated her for it. I thought I had it under control; I was doing fine (by my own terms). A few days later I found myself sitting on an exam table in one of the rooms at the doctor’s office. They knew why I was there, you can’t make an appointment without telling them why—I hated the looks I got from the lady who was at the sign-in desk and the nurse that came to get me. The only person who didn’t send me a pity look was my Doc. He merely asked the ques he needed answers to and then found me a few analyses I had to take. I scored pretty high—you didn’t want to score high on these kinds of tests though. That’s the day I was given anti-depressants; pills that have made my life hell for the past two years.
One Doc appointment down, one more to go; I hated the thought of sitting in a room and talking about my feelings to someone I didn’t know. I thought it was stupid. I learned quickly how good I was at lying (despite the fact I despised liars). I would tell her (my therapist) that the meds were working and it took me four months of visits till I finally broached the subject I’d been dancing around—my ex. I talked about him for ten minutes and then the rest of my session was spent talking about work. I hid behind work, it was a stressor she said, and I used that to my advantage. She never pushed for topics and I never really gave her much of a choice.