I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 14
I don’t leave therapy feeling it was at all therapeutic… actually after I found a corner and starting crying. Not like a regular, “sniff sniff” I’m sad crying, I mean like fucking bawling. I mean the kind of crying that, by definition, is pretty much the most emasculating thing ever.
Of course while I’m doing the girliest thing since Oprah got her own hour long cry fest aired on national television, a girl is actually watching me. It’s a hot girl at that; an inquisitive, incredibly hot girl. It’s less of a watch and more of a stare really… like the special autistic stare.
That was something that always pissed me off, when people mistook autism for retardation. To me autism wasn’t even necessarily a bad thing, just… a beautiful ability to focus. It’s more of a genius then a handicap. Like the blind kung fu ninja from all those movies, the one who’s other senses rose after the loss of vision. Sure, true beauty comes from within; that is if you’re eight. True beauty comes from pain and sacrifice.
Anyways… I’m embarrassingly tearing apart at the seams, and, autistic or not, she’s watching me do it. I can’t try to brush this off… and I can’t make myself yell at her either. So I’m left with two options: run away, tears falling from my face and oh so very melodramatic, or ignore her. My passive aggressive tendencies tell me it’s easier to pretend she isn’t there. She’s the monster in the closet and I’m 4. As much as I pretend it’s not there, I’m pretty positive it is, and as much as I tell myself it won’t hurt me, I’m shaking in fear. Fear and violent sobs that is, can’t forget to include that good old fashioned violent sobbing.
Why the hell am I freaking out anyway?
I ha a therapy session and it wasn’t very productive. I lied in response to almost every question she asked, because I’m afraid of the antidepressants I know she’ll prescribe, but for some weird reason I actually have a strange underlying desire to get better. It seems like I should be able to handle this, but I can’t.
The reasons I want to get better are the same reasons I don’t want to. Because to fix the problem… means to fix me. Like the depression… this biting, tearing, growling monster… like it’s so integrated into me that… well; it’s like that’s all that’s left. Like I am this monster, to kill one would mean killing both of us.
This girl’s still staring at my pathetic, hot, tear soaked face. I don’t know why but her staring is actually kind of helping a little; like maybe, in some incredibly fucked up way, maybe I’m not so alone.
Of course while I’m doing the girliest thing since Oprah got her own hour long cry fest aired on national television, a girl is actually watching me. It’s a hot girl at that; an inquisitive, incredibly hot girl. It’s less of a watch and more of a stare really… like the special autistic stare.
That was something that always pissed me off, when people mistook autism for retardation. To me autism wasn’t even necessarily a bad thing, just… a beautiful ability to focus. It’s more of a genius then a handicap. Like the blind kung fu ninja from all those movies, the one who’s other senses rose after the loss of vision. Sure, true beauty comes from within; that is if you’re eight. True beauty comes from pain and sacrifice.
Anyways… I’m embarrassingly tearing apart at the seams, and, autistic or not, she’s watching me do it. I can’t try to brush this off… and I can’t make myself yell at her either. So I’m left with two options: run away, tears falling from my face and oh so very melodramatic, or ignore her. My passive aggressive tendencies tell me it’s easier to pretend she isn’t there. She’s the monster in the closet and I’m 4. As much as I pretend it’s not there, I’m pretty positive it is, and as much as I tell myself it won’t hurt me, I’m shaking in fear. Fear and violent sobs that is, can’t forget to include that good old fashioned violent sobbing.
Why the hell am I freaking out anyway?
I ha a therapy session and it wasn’t very productive. I lied in response to almost every question she asked, because I’m afraid of the antidepressants I know she’ll prescribe, but for some weird reason I actually have a strange underlying desire to get better. It seems like I should be able to handle this, but I can’t.
The reasons I want to get better are the same reasons I don’t want to. Because to fix the problem… means to fix me. Like the depression… this biting, tearing, growling monster… like it’s so integrated into me that… well; it’s like that’s all that’s left. Like I am this monster, to kill one would mean killing both of us.
This girl’s still staring at my pathetic, hot, tear soaked face. I don’t know why but her staring is actually kind of helping a little; like maybe, in some incredibly fucked up way, maybe I’m not so alone.