Chapter 7
A/N: Hey, sorry for being a bit late again, but here it is :) Thank you for writing comments, feedback, for letting me know how you feel about this story, for sharing your own stories, sending me asks. I'm gonna be extremely honest and say that all of this means the world to me. And you loving my story, well it's something I never expected. So thank you.
Once again, a shoutout to my friends, especially Will because he edits all of this stuff and makes it readable and understandable :D
I hope you enjoy!
“Have you or have you not tried to commit suicide?” The psychiatrist asks you again, but you just ignore the question. You feel like you’ve had this conversation many times before, you feel as if it’s the only thing that everyone is demanding to know now. As if the answer will magically help all of them to understand you better. It won’t. It’s getting tiresome and you want to leave, but that’s quite impossible at the given moment. The white hospital room and the lights are too bright for you, you feel sleepy, your eyelids are getting heavier each second.
“I have not,” you answer calmly for what seems like the hundredth time. “I have not,” you repeat slowly. You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince, the doctor or yourself. But the fact that you’re stuck in this hospital doesn’t change. You want to get out of here, to not be asked tons of questions, to be able to break free from all these people that surround you. But you can’t.
The doctors here do not believe what you say one bit; you see it in their dark and gloomy eyes. They think that either you don’t really understand that you’ve tried to kill yourself, that you’re denying it, or plain and simple – you’re just lying about it. You do nothing to change their belief, you don’t care that much. Anyway, you’ve been put under intense observation; the psychiatrist repeated that fact for a few times, so that even your numb and overly-medicated self had understood. What it means is that you can’t do anything on your own; you can’t even go to the bathroom alone. Even when you’re alone in the hospital room, you know that the personnel, the nurses, are always nearby, checking up on you, peeking from around the corner to see how you’re doing. You feel weird knowing that there are always eyes on you, no matter what you do; you just know that. That feeling makes you slightly uncomfortable, paranoid. You eat everything they give you with a spoon because they don’t trust you enough to give you a fork, not to mention a proper knife. You might stick it in your neck after all and no-one wants that. You’d find it funny if you didn’t find it pathetic and sad. You feel… Well, you don’t. You’re numb and apathy has taken over.
“Then how would you explain the painkillers and alcohol found in your stomach, Miss Woods?” He asks another question, the question you’ve already heard multiple times. These questions are so frustrating and annoying, mostly because you don’t remember much. They also never seem to end. Forcing yourself to remember what accurately happened is like breaking the locks of a door that should stay closed.
The psychiatrist told you earlier that you were out of it for three days straight. You woke up with multiple tubes and IVs attached to your body, like a voodoo doll that has been pierced with lots of sharp needles. When you woke up, you were in a haze, heavily sedated, not even understanding where you were or who the people around you were. Other doctors have told you that they pumped your stomach of the meds and the alcohol. The tubes and IVs pumped vitamins and needed fluids into your body; they also stitched your wrist because the cut was really deep. After all, you’ve managed to cut into the nerve, that’s why your hand went numb. Everyone seemed so proud that they saved you, but you couldn’t help but feel the dread that settled into your stomach. You didn’t try to kill yourself, but you realized that you didn’t want to live either. You just… didn’t care anymore. Even with your stomach empty, the first thing you did when you woke up was throw up in the container nearby.
“I had a headache,” you say absent-mindedly as you stare through the window. The hospital is a fifteen minute drive from campus and its complex stands alone in the middle of a lush forest. You stare at the green of the tall pines, at the whiteness of the heavy snow. Is it still winter?
“A headache?” The psychiatrist seems surprised, taken aback by your answer. “Do you always down your painkillers with tequila, Miss Woods?” The sarcasm is evident.
This man with a sharp jaw, probably in his early forties, with his striped tie and stupid glasses, annoys the hell out of you right now. Because all of these questions seem so irrelevant, so unimportant to you. You just don’t give a fuck anymore. You want to scream “I don’t care!”, but your throat is dry and you’re barely able to speak as it is. So you choose to not say anything for a while. You haven’t tried to kill yourself. If you had, you’d have definitely put in more effort, you don’t do anything half-assed. Yet still… You could have called Raven or Octavia, you could have called the hospital yourself. You could have gone to the campus administrator and told her you didn’t feel well. But that would have meant dealing with a lot of questions you didn’t want to be asked, that you didn’t want to answer. And a lot of explaining to do as well. When you think about it, maybe subconsciously you wanted to die, for all of this to be over, but not being directly responsible for it, not playing a big part in your own demise. Your head starts pulsing as you throw a glance at the psychiatrist sitting on a chair nearby. Dying would be great right about now.
“Your body has been on the verge of shutting down because it lacked nutrients and vitamins among other things. Meaning, you have stopped eating,” you see him stare at you from the corner of your eye, but refuse to look at him. “Not to mention sleep deprivation. Has this been an accident as well?” The calm of his voice pisses you off more than it should.
“No,” you give in and turn your head to look right at him. “No, it hasn’t. But I haven’t done any of this in the hopes of getting myself killed if that’s what you want to know,” you close your eyes, still feeling dizzy from all the meds they’re giving you.
“Then why have you done this?” A question worth a million bucks. But you don’t know the answer, you just don’t. Self-destructive tendencies? Feeling upset? Feeling suicidal? Not giving a damn anymore? Who knows?
“Can you just… leave?” He’s getting on your nerves. It’s his second attempt to get some answers and you still have none. You do not cooperate. His calm demeanor feels too fake for comfort right now, so you want him gone.
“I will leave you to rest, but I remind you once more that you’re under strict observation for the next 48 hours or so. I’m merely doing psychiatric evaluation under suspicion of you trying to commit suicide,” the psychiatrist gets up, a bunch of papers and a clipboard in hands.
“For fuck’s sake, I haven’t tried to kill myself!” You yell at him angrily, touching your pulsing temple with your cold hand.
“Your parents are here, as well as your friends. Would you like to see any of them?” He dismisses your words and adjusts his glasses as he heads towards the heavy white door.
“No,” you slump back into the comfort of the hospital pillow and stare at the pines again. “I don’t want to see anyone,” you close your eyes. All you want to do is sleep.
“Understood,” you hear right before the door closes and dreamless sleep takes over.
What a fucking mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
*****
Your parents aren’t good with masking their disappointment; you can see it in their eyes. They terrible at pretending that everything is fine, but it isn’t, you all know it. They fuss over everything just to distract themselves. How the food they are giving you is terrible, how they’re giving you too many meds, how it’s unfair that you can’t go home, those kinds of things. You don’t really know which would be better – staying here or being at home with your parents. Probably neither.
“But you were fine when you were home on Christmas!” Your mom says and your dad just nods in agreement. “Did something happen later, when you got back? Did someone say something to you?” She really doesn’t get it, your dad doesn’t get it either. It’s always bad, it never goes away. Your parents think that depression is like a flu, you treat it and it’s all good later on.
“I wasn’t fine, mom. I was never fine…” you try your best not to look at those glum and disappointed faces. It’s not that they don’t care; it’s just that they don’t know how to deal with this, even though you’ve been this way as long as you remember.
You talk to the psychiatrist every day because it’s a part of your treatment. He doesn’t annoy you as much as before, you’ve probably had a lot of pent up anger after the so called suicide attempt. He visits you every day in your hospital room. Sometimes you don’t feel like talking and he just nods at you and leaves without a word. It feels weird when someone started asking questions no one cared to ever ask before. No one, but… You tell him about your parents, about Clarke, about life in the dorms and your studies. You’re all but scratching the surface, how else could you start talking about it? The psychiatrist says that you have to start somewhere, even if it doesn’t seem important to you. So you tell him bits and pieces - about your childhood, about your depression, about your feelings. You’re not good at sharing, when you remember something particularly painful, your throat goes dry and you change topics. He doesn’t say anything about it. But it still feels unreal, as if it’s someone else telling him all of this, like it’s someone else reciting your pathetic life story. It’s weird really; you’ve said multiple times that your life was tough. But was it really? Your parents weren’t drunks; you always had money, a roof over your head. So what was so unsatisfactory to you? The psychiatrist told you that the emotional welfare of a child is of equal importance. Maybe, probably. You don’t know for sure.
*****
Raven and Octavia come by one day. You hear the heavy door of your room open and you peel open your eyes to see dark brown hair. You remember Raven and her sad smile that day, you remember the look she gave you.
“Hey,” they say softly and you stir, then carefully stretch a bit and sit up properly.
“Hi,” you yawn as you cover your mouth with your hand carefully. The IV drip moves a bit forward to your bed, but doesn’t fall as that one time before.
“Sorry, we’d have visit you another time if we knew you were asleep,” Octavia says gently, the usual harshness in her voice gone now.
“No, it’s fine,” you blink hard and then focus your attention on them. “All of these meds are making me sleepy,” you explain as Raven sits at the end of your bed while Octavia takes the chair near the bed.
“We’ve brought you some food, but we’ve left it at the nurse’s station. How are you feeling?” Raven asks carefully and looks at you with concern. Octavia unbuttons her heavy coat.
“I’ve been better,” your quiet raspy laugh echoes in the room, but Octavia and Raven do not find it funny. You know that, you’re just trying to dissipate the seriousness a bit; you’re so fed up with it, with everyone walking on eggshells treating you like you’re made of glass.
“If I only knew… I’m sorry… I could have said something, but I didn’t,” you frown as Raven touches your knee and doesn’t meet your eyes.
“Raven, what are you on about?” Octavia looks at her confused and Raven shakes her head.
“I met Lexa that day, in that shop nearby campus. I forgot to tell you. Probably because right after that I went to a gas station and met another acquaintance of mine,” Raven says and turns to face Octavia. “I could have said something; I could have invited her over, talked her out of it, I could have done something, anything,” Raven looks down at the tiles of the room, her hand not leaving your knee.
“It’s not your fault,” you comfort her because you know Raven. You know how even though she isn’t, she feels responsible for this, in her own way. “Besides, you couldn’t have done anything to help me. I was beyond help,” you say dryly.
No one says anything for a while. Octavia and Raven both stare at the hospital floor tiles, you exhale violently and stare at Rave’s red coat. She breaks the silence first.
“That’s what I’m mostly upset about,” she says still not looking at you. “That I could not help you. What friend am I if I can’t help you?” She asks. You want to say that they both are your only friends, that you don’t blame them. Blaming them would be stupid, immature, they did nothing wrong, they were always there for you. Why do they feel guilty in the first place? You don’t really understand.
“Raven…” you try, but she raises her hand a bit and cuts you off.
“We suck, we’re terrible friends, O,” she turns to Octavia once more and Octavia nods in agreement. You still don’t understand.
“That we are, I’m not even going to defend us. I’m sorry, Lexa,” Octavia covers your hand with her. “We weren’t there for you,” she whispers.
“That’s ok,” you want to reassure them, to calm them, but it’s not working. They both seem shaken and you feel even worse for bringing this upon them. You swallow roughly. “Stop blaming yourselves, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s ok.”
“It really isn’t,” Raven exhales sadly and shakes her head again. “You tried to kill yourself, Lexa. It’s kind of a big deal,” she says.
“You’re not responsible for this, alright? You’re not!” Your voice echoes again. “I did this to myself, me. I did this to myself. No one is responsible for my actions but me,” you clench your fists, but Octavia’s soothing fingers rub circles on the back of your palm until you relax a bit.
“Have you seen Clarke?” Octavia asks cautiously, as if Clarke’s name is forbidden.
“No,” you answer after a pause. “No, I haven’t,” you turn your head from them.
“Lexa…” Raven begins. “You know that’s she’s been coming here every day? The nurses told me, your parents told me, your shrink told me,” she says as Octavia nods to emphasize.
“I just… Don’t want to see her, ok? I don’t, not now,” you try to explain, but it doesn’t sound convincing one bit. Instead, you stare through the window.
“She’s your girlfriend. She wants to see you,” Raven says.
“I know,” you mutter under your breath, hurting.
*****
“Absolutely not,” he says simply, not even bothering to look at you, writing something down as usual. You just roll your eyes at the gesture, feeling annoyed.
“If you want me to bash my head into the walls until I bleed out, try me,” you say, cocking your head to the side. “I will go back to my dorm after I’m released. And that’s that.”
“Miss Woods…” he tries, but you interrupt him.
“No, stop right there. Also, stop calling me Miss Woods, it’s unnerving, I have a name,” you say. “You want me to get better? Let me go back. I’ve been in this goddamn hospital for a week already and a new semester is starting soon. Missing out would really not make me feel better,” you try your best to explain. You want to go to your dorm room, you want to forget.
“But your parents want you to go back with them,” the psychiatrist says as he puts all of the papers aside. “You can afford to miss some of the lectures, you’re smart enough to bounce back and not feel it,” he then grabs the papers again and continues writing. You always wonder what he’s writing there. That you’re childish? Insufferable? Stubborn? Or basic stuff like what kind of meds you need and in what dosage.
“Hell no,” you don’t give up. “I will not go back there,” you clench your fists in anger, fingernails digging into the skin of your palms.
“I know that it might feel like torture, especially after everything you’ve told me about your parents and your strained relationship with them, but you need to work this out,” he takes off his glasses to clean them with a cloth from a pocket. “You need to deal with this.”
“I’ve already dealt with this, it never changes. It’s useless,” you say to him. “They’ll never change,” your voice gets quieter as you shake your head. People don’t change, they adjust at best, but they never change. Nor do you.
“Cutting yourself, indulging in alcohol is not the best way to deal with problems either,” he puts the glasses back on and smiles a bit. You throw him an irritated look, then roll your eyes again and look away.
“At least I deal with this shit, one way or another. Unlike…” you stop mid-sentence.
“Unlike Clarke?” He asks unfazed and the hurt is back, a nagging feeling in your chest.
“Yes,” you answer. “Unlike Clarke.”
“You still haven’t seen her,” he says simply. “She saved your life,” he points out the obvious.
“I really wish she didn’t,” the tiredness in your voice indicates that it’s enough for today and he gets up to leave. You stare at the pines outside, the greenness of them seems to comfort you, soothes you.
The door closes. You groan as you take your head in hands, trying not to cry. You know you’ll have to see her sooner or later. But not now, not now…
*****
You’re taken aback when she walks into your hospital room one day. You even lose the ability to speak for a few seconds, your heart starts racing and you feel like someone just threw every possible emotion at you all at once. You feel excitement, dread, anger… You feel everything and your skin burns because of it.
“I know you didn’t want to see me. Your psychiatrist told me that, but he still let me in,” Clarke says as she approaches you carefully and takes a seat. “I can be persuasive.”
“I’m going to kill him,” you stare at the white sheets of your hospital bed, avoiding Clarke at all costs. Avoiding her golden hair, her blue eyes, her… You hear her shift closer to you. “I’m going to kill that bastard,” you say as you close your eyes.
“Lexa…” the blonde begins, but you already know what she’s going to say before she speaks.
“Clarke, just… stop, ok?” You open your eyes and exhale loudly through your nose. “Let’s just stop pretending I’m going to get better, because I’m not. Let me say what I want to say. First of all, I haven’t tried to kill myself,” you clarify, still not looking at her.
“I know,” she says, but you find it annoying. She knows? Really? That’s just bullshit.
“No, you don’t. Second, I am no good, absolutely; I am a piece of shit, garbage. You don’t want that. You don’t deserve that,” your voice breaks. “You don’t want that,” tears form in the corners of your eyes. When did you become such a cry baby? You hate crying, but it is all you seem to be doing these past few weeks.
“Don’t tell me what I want,” she says so quietly, you barely hear it.
“You want this? Picking up the pieces of what’s left of me? Pacing through hospital halls?” you snarl at her, feeling agitated. “You don’t, you really don’t,” you conclude angrily.
“Don’t tell me what I want!” Clarke raises her voice. “I want you, it’s that simple,” the blonde states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It just makes you even angrier.
“No, it’s not!” You yell and shoot her a fierce look. “Shit won’t go away just because you want it to. There is no magical wand that you can wave and say ‘Ta-daa!’ and all of the problems will somehow disappear,” your throat goes dry in seconds, but you don’t care anymore.
“Lexa,” Clarke reaches for your hand, but you shake your head and withdraw. “Please.”
“Just accept it, that you’ll never be happy with me,” you don’t recognize yourself or your own voice. It’s as if someone else is talking and you can’t stop it, can’t stop the words that are being said. “We’re just dragging this out,” you look away once again.
“We can do this, Lexa,” she says as she ignores your words and you almost believe her. You want to, but what you won’t do is lie to yourself anymore. “We can do this,” Clarke repeats, and it gets on your nerves.
But she doesn’t get it, does she? Even now you’re hurting her. Who says you won’t try to commit suicide in the future? Who says that the cutting will stop? How can you promise her something good when you are not? You’re submerged in water, you’re drowning, lungs filled with liquid already. You won’t ask her to drown with you, you just can’t. And Clarke doesn’t get it, she doesn’t get that you’re doing her a favor, that you’re trying to…
“We can do this,” Clarke says more boldly, but your body just starts shaking.
“Shut the fuck up, Clarke, just shut the fuck up,” a sharp pain erupts in the left side of your head and you wince. You hear her talking, but you can’t make out the words just yet.
“Your psychiatrist told me that you might feel worse before getting better,” Clarke says after a pause. “I hope you’ll want to see me one day. I hope you can…” the blonde whispers and you can’t hear the ending of that sentence. After a few seconds she gets up and leaves.
You hope one day she’ll understand that nothing good can come from associating with you.
*****
The white walls of the hospital room depress you. You’re in the middle of nothing; this is where you want to be. You’re free to walk around; they say they’re keeping you here until you get to your full strength again. Your body is still weak; you feel it once you start walking around more. Instead of visiting you, now you get to go to the shrink’s office. You tell him about your encounter with Clarke, about how she doesn’t get it. You wait for him to tell you how stupid you are, how destructive, self-centered you are, but her never does.
“I do not judge, Lexa,” he says one day when you ask him about it.
“You still have to have an opinion,” you try to provoke him.
“I do, but it is not my place to intervene,” the shrink explains. “I don’t want my advice or my opinions getting in the way of how other people think and feel. They should not become biased only because I’m a doctor and for some reason I should know better. Because I don’t,” he concludes, but you still do not feel content.
“That’s… A very smart thing of you to do,” you find yourself saying.
*****
You’ve spent a week and a half in the hospital. It feels strange to know that you’ll get out of here today. Your hospital room became like a bubble, shielding you away from the rest of the world. Now you have to go back and face it once again. Are you better prepared? You don’t know, you honestly have no idea. You don’t even know if you feel better than before.
“Lexa, after you’re released today, I want you to come see me once a week,” the psychiatrist says. “Can you do that?” He writes down the meds you’ll need to take.
“I can,” you answer.
“You need to start making amends with your parents. It won’t be easy, you have a lot of grudges, but you need to let them go. Holding onto the anger will hurt no one but you. If you feel uncomfortable, uneasy, you have to let them know, don’t keep it to yourself,” he stops writing and looks at you.
“I know, you’ve told me this already.”
“You need to solve your issues with Clarke as well,” you wince at the sound of her name.
“I think we need to break-up,” you tell him. “I think I’m not good for her,” he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He keeps it to himself. As always.
“Take these twice a day, alright?” You nod. “And do please take care of yourself. Eat, sleep,” you nod again and roll your eyes.
“Yeah,” you say apathetically, still medicated.
“I’m serious, Lexa,” he looks at you concerned, brows furrowed. “You have to put effort if you want to get better,” his smile looks sincere.
“I know,” you say as you wave goodbye and leave his office.
*****
They all tiptoe around everything. Your parents, Raven and Octavia. They don’t want you to go off the deep end again; they think you’re too fragile. In their minds, you did try to commit suicide. No one believes that you didn’t. You don’t really seem to care what they believe in. You go back to the dorms, but before that, you go back to your hometown for a few days.
“How is your friend doing? Her name is Clarke, right?” Your mother asks you carefully. She doesn’t know anything, she just thinks that you and Clarke argued over something and that’s why you refused to see her when you were at the hospital.
“She’s fine,” you feel a lump in your throat because honestly, you have no idea. “She’s fine.”
“How did you meet her?” She asks while you’re making yourself a sandwich on the counter.
“I’ve actually met her this semester, we had copyright law together. Even though she was friends with Raven and Octavia from our first year,” you explain as you slice up the tomatoes. Your mother watches you with caution in her eyes. Oh right, a sharp object.
“She’s a nice and thoughtful girl. And she seems to genuinely care for you. She came to the hospital every day while you were there,” she says. “It was nice seeing Raven and Octavia, too. I remember how we met them when we came to visit you. Do you remember?” Your mother starts giggling.
“How can I not?” You laugh. “It was in my first year, you came to see how I was doing. They were the first friends I’ve made, probably the only ones. I remember that Raven and Octavia were so drunk from the party the night before, they didn’t even make it to their own room. So they crashed at mine. And Raven was the one who opened the door for you,” you smile widely.
“I was petrified. Some unknown girl who clearly had a hangover opened the door of your room. At first I thought that maybe we mixed up the rooms,” your mom laughs as she opens the fridge and takes out the cheese, then gives it to you.
“Well, Raven seemed petrified as well,” you smile some more. “She went on and on how she’s made a bad first impression,” you say as you remember that day very clearly.
You feel at ease after a very long time. Especially when your dad tells a funny story from work during dinner and you feel yourself laughing sincerely. They won’t change, they will still say hurtful things, maybe they’ll be more self-aware, maybe they won’t. All you can do is change how you react to certain things. That’s all. Sounds easy, but it isn’t.
*****
“Have you ever tried doing drugs?” The office seems too big, too dark from the usual brightness of your hospital room. You’ve been here only once before.
“Is this a suggestion or are you asking me?” You look around, read the backs of the books that are on the shelves. Psychology, philosophy, biology…Seems interesting.
“I’m asking,” he’s ready to write down your answer in the clipboard.
“I have, if you count weed as a drug,” you slump into the armchair. “Once. Raven and Octavia dragged me to this party and someone offered me a blunt. I tried it, didn’t like it though. Decided to stick to cigarettes,” you say as an overwhelming desire to smoke washes over you.
“What about other drugs?” The doctor asks again.
“I haven’t tried them,” you raise your shoulders and shrug, not knowing how to answer this.
“Why?” He asks, intent on finding out the reasons of why you’re not a drug-addict.
“That’s a weird question to ask,” you point out. “Because I’d get addicted. Because addictions always seemed to fascinate me. Addiction to coffee, to drugs, to cigarettes, to sweets…” you trail off.
“Why?” He seems truly intrigued by your answer. You’re not sure you’ll be able to explain.
“Because addiction is a spiritual form of enslavement,” the explanation is clearly not enough. “Because then I’d have a reason, a pretext to say why everything is so fucked up.”
“So why not then?” The shrink doesn’t seem to understand.
“Because I want to be responsible for my own actions. I want to know that it was me who fucked up. Because I can only blame myself then,” he seems to finally comprehend what you mean.
“Because then you’d have another reason to blame yourself, right? Another reason to hate yourself?” He takes the words right out of your mouth.
“Yes,” you whisper.
*****
Clarke’s determined to get some answers. You almost want to close the door when you hear a knock and see her standing in the hall. Clarke talks and talks and talks some more, saying how much she misses you, saying how much you mean to her, but you don’t hear any of it really.
“It hurts me to say that I want you to stay,” you begin. “But I’ll be alright if you go. So leave me. Leave me, Clarke,” you tell her, you plead her, but she’s having none of that.
“Not a chance,” the blonde says, fire in her eyes.
“I’ll ruin you; I ruin everything I touch. I…” you’re lost for words. Why is she doing this? Why does she come back? Why? You wouldn’t.
“No, you don’t, Lexa,” Clarke’s voice is strong, decisive. The exact opposite to your mumbling and occasional silence.
“Clarke…” you think about how her name sounds like a prayer.
“I’m not going to abandon you, I won’t. I’ve already said this - I’m committed, I accept you no matter what. I’m here, I’m going to trust you, I’m not keeping more stuff from you,” she says and you think how it’s too late, a little too late for all of that.
“It’s not… I don’t… I’ve let me down. Look at me, Clarke. What a mess I am,” you turn from her, feeling as you might explode from all of this, from all of these feelings inside of you.
“You’ll get better,” she whispers. “I know you will,” you hear her say.
“No, I don’t think so,” the reality hits you again. You honestly think you won’t.
“Lexa…” she says your name so softly, so carefully that you close your eyes.
“I wanted to die, Clarke,” you shatter everything with this sentence. You know you have.
“I…” the blonde stutters. “That’s not true. You wouldn’t have called me and…” she rambles, but you know that you’ve dealt her a blow. You wanted to die and you’re not lying to yourself anymore. Not after all of this.
“Please, just leave…” you whisper. And she does, you hear the door being closed.
Sometimes the one you want is not the one you need.
*****
At certain times you think that maybe you wouldn’t have to deal with all of this if you were actually dead. You fucked up; you fucked up so badly you don’t see how you’ll ever rebound from it all. The people closest to you think you’re going to break any moment now, you pushed your girlfriend away because you have issues you’re not dealing with. Among other things.
*****
“I wanted to die,” you say suddenly, out of the blue.
“I thought you said you didn’t try to commit suicide,” He takes out his pen out of his blazer’s pocket and takes the clipboard from the coffee table.
“I didn’t, I didn’t try to kill myself, doesn’t mean I didn’t want to die,” you relax into the armchair and bite your lip. You want to be truthful; you don’t want to lie anymore.
“Lexa, I think you need some time for yourself,” he says. “Don’t you think so?” He asks.
“I don’t know.” You answer. You really don’t know.
“I think you need to figure some things out on your own,” the psychiatrist suggests.
“Don’t you think I’ll get worse? Overthinking hasn’t really helped me,” you’re skeptical.
“I think you’ll be fine as long as you don’t become too reclusive.” Maybe, maybe he’s right.
*****
You think about a lot of stuff. You don’t feel better. You don’t know how you feel. You just know you can’t do this without her. You need her. You need her, then you’ll figure out the rest. You look at the mirror and think that you’re an idiot. There are so many things you need to tell her, so many things. You don’t know what will happen after you say what you want, but…
You need to see Clarke.