Dollhouse

One

My name is Autumn Arden and I am sixteen years old. I know teenagers have a certain stereotype, and I would like to apologise on behalf of all us teenagers. We are not all the same; some of us are completely different, actually. But if people based stereotypes on the good things, then they would no longer be funny and people wouldn't be able to judge any book by its cover. That's the funny thing about this world - they tell you to be yourself and then they judge you for it.
I wouldn't describe myself as your average sixteen year old. Sure, I've got the typical 'brown hair, brown eyes' type look, I dress in band tees and skinny jeans and I walk around laughing with my friends, but its what's going on, on in the inside. And by 'inside', I don't mean what's inside my personality or my soul or my heart and all that bull. I mean my head. That's just a story that could tell itself. I try to convince myself I'm okay, as much as I know its a lie. I've always believed that the worst thing about someone lying to you is knowing that you weren't worth the truth. However, lying to yourself is a different story. The worst lies are the ones you tell yourself, because if you can't trust yourself, then how are you supposed to truly trust anyone?
The doctors aren't sure what I've got. I haven't officially been diagnosed, and I don't think anyone realises just how agonisingly painful it is to know that there is something wrong with you, but have no idea what. I mean, they did think I was Schizophrenic at first, but the medication wasn't helping, so that got ruled out. I've convinced myself that they've given up, you know. The voices, the hallucinations, the self harm and suicide attempts. All of those things can easily be diagnosed by one thing or another, and I know that, and I know that the doctors know that, so why is it that they have come up with nothing?

Last week, my mother spent a long time trying to convince me to go to some therapy group. Please, someone, anyone, explain to me why I would want to sit in a white room, full of a bunch of kids who are just like me, talking about the voices telling them to kill themselves, or about how they struggle every time they see a razor. It is not something I would appreciate listening to, although, having said that, I do appreciate my mother in trying her best to help me with something she could not possibly understand. She's scared though, I know she is. Every time I say I want a walk, or that I'm going out, I see a little flash of panic in her eyes as if it will be the last time she ever sees me. Which could very well happen. Mental health is a tricky thing and its unpredictable; nothing is more terrifying than having a battle every single day with your own mind. People tell me to 'keep holding on' but its difficult to keep a string from breaking when you have everything weighing it down. Sometimes, it feels as though that Hell is empty and all the demons have possessed my head. Hey, maybe that's true. Probably not, but its a nicer way of looking at things than saying 'yeah, I'm just mentally messed up.'
Is that sick? Saying that I'd prefer to be possessed by Lucifer's own demons than to have mental health issues? Maybe, maybe not. At least then I'd have a reason, and I wouldn't have to keep telling myself that I'm crazy.
It is horrible though, whatever I've got. Its like I'm drowning and there is someone standing a few feet away from me, in calmer water, yelling 'just swim!' But how can I possibly learn to swim when its my own thoughts that are suffocating me?
If you don't understand this, good. I hope you never have so much anger or self-hatred to take a razor and drag it across your wrist. I hope you never have to be so terrified of waking up that when you finally do, you stay in bed with your eyes closed for another three hours, trying to fall asleep again just to escape your own messed up mind. I hope you never have to ask yourself if that person you can see is real or just another trick your horrible brain is playing on you. That's what it is. A game. My brain seems to be very good at a game that I don't want to play, but I'm locked in and I have no escape. I have to play, and I know there's only two options: win or lose. And the result of losing? Death.

It could be considered funny, all of this. If you look at it from a certain angle. I, like many, many others, walk around, smiling and laughing, acting as if everything is okay, and maybe it is for a while, but in reality, deep down, its never really 'okay'. I don't even know what being okay means anymore. Its the same every day, so am I okay?

No.

I am not okay, not mentally, anyway. Physically, sure, I'm healthy, I'm lucky in that sense, but I would never ask for help. Mental health is something that, unless you've been through it, its very easy to judge. 'You're not depressed, I saw you laugh a minute ago!' 'If you hear voices, you're crazy!' 'You can see people that aren't there? That freaks me out, can you stop it?' Haha. If only. Asking someone with a mental health problem to 'just stop it' or to 'get over it' is like asking someone in a wheelchair to 'get up and walk.' Just because its invisible to you, doesn't mean its not there. Mental health isn't a headache where you can take a pill and it'll be fine in an hour.



"Autumn, will you please just try this therapy group?" There she goes again. "I will wait right outside and you can leave any time you want,"
"If I go will you shut up about it?"
"Yes,"
"Fine,"
"Good, I'm glad. I'll be in the car. Ten minutes," I heard her heels colliding with the tile staircase and the clink of her keys as she opened the front door and closed it quietly behind her. I got up from my bed, put on a black top that had 'Music Never Sleeps' written in white across the front, slipped on my black hoodie and some black and purple All Stars that fit perfectly in line with my black skinny jeans, and jogged quickly down the stairs to meet my mum in her car.

There we were. Just how I imagined: a big square building, - one floor - glass doors at the front and very hospital looking.
"This doesn't make me feel any less crazy," I told my mum.
"Just go, try it out. It starts in ten minutes, hurry!" She urged. Her brown hair hung straight, falling a little way past her shoulders; the opposite of my curled hair that sat just barely past my shoulders.
"I don't think I need to hurry, I'm not exactly thrilled about this, am I?" I knew it was useless though, as, by this point, she had practically pushed me out of the car.
I started walking towards the glass double doors, that I had assumed were automatic, but my assumption was wrong. I pressed the buzzer and the elderly lady sat behind the desk allowed me inside.
"Excuse me?" I approached the desk and she looked up at me. She was old, about 75, but her eyes told a story. A sad one. Her eyes were full of sadness and regret, but there wasn't any time for me to question her, and even if there was, why was it my business?
"Could you please tell me where the mental health therapy group is please?" I gave a slight smile, and she explained where to go. I tried to end the conversation with a thank you, but before I could walk away, she said 'good luck.' I tried to brush it off, but I couldn't. As much as I wanted to tell myself she only meant good by it, I couldn't convince myself.

"I see we have a new face today!" Thomas, the therapist guy, exclaimed kind of loudly, whilst staring at me. We were sat in a circle, about thirty of us messed up kids, and they all turned to face me.
"Would you like to introduce yourself?" He smiled at me for a longer period of time than I felt comfortable with, which also made me realise that I had been quiet for a long period of time. 'No,' I wanted to say, but of course, I didn't.
"Er, okay, I'm Autumn and I'm sixteen," after I said that and I thought I was done, Thomas kept staring at me.
"And your diagnosis?" I was honestly a little surprised he had asked me that in such a forward tone.
"Is not something I'd wish to discuss in front of 30 people that I've never seen before," that comment had made a few people smile and a few chuckle, but Thomas just nodded his head, sort of patronisingly, but I think he meant it to be understanding.
The introductions flowed around the circle, some saying what they were diagnosed with, others not. When the last boy, who was only 12, was finished telling us he had severe OCD that had taken over his life, Thomas leaned forward in his seat.
"Today, guys, I'd like to talk about suicide," he had sincerity in his voice, but again, patronising. "What do you think about someone hating themselves so much that they want to end their lives?" I shook my head, and tried my absolute hardest not to say anything, but I couldn't let this one slide.
"That isn't true. Necessarily," the group, which consisted of 17 boys and 12 other girls, (I had counted while Thomas was babbling on about how we should all stay strong and how everything is always okay in the end,) had turned to look at me. "Okay, yeah, some people do hate themselves and as a result, kill themselves, but you can't say that that's the only reason. Some people can't handle their life at the moment, and turn to suicide. Not everyone does it to end their life, they do it to end the pain. Why don't you try hearing voices telling you to kill yourself and seeing people that aren't there, causing break downs in the street, every single day for the rest of your life? Why don't you try that and then come back to me and tell me if you still feel as though you can cope through another day. Things have more than one explanation, not everything is straightforward, even black and white has grey areas. Here's a little tip, Thomas. Don't say things you know nothing about. You can't expect to understand something you have never yourself been through. That would be like me sitting here, trying to explain what it feels like to break an arm, when I have never broken my arm. I could make a general guess, but pain is different for everyone. Physcial and mental, both," without another word spoken, I stood up and left the room. I could hear Thomas trying to call me back, but I continued walking. I understood that he was trying to help and get people talking about it, but I knew that if I had stayed there any longer, I wouldn't be able to stop my anger issues, one of the three things I actually had been diagnosed with, and that wouldn't be fair for the other people there.
My mum was still sat in her car and I saw the look of disappointment in her face as I approached her car door, implying for her to open the window. Once she did so, I could almost hear the sadness in her voice as she said
"What happened?"
"Nothing, I just didn't like it. But look, I'm gonna go for a walk, I'll be back home later, okay?" As soon as I said that, a look of panic spread across my mother's face. "Mum, you can't keep me cooped up forever. I'll be okay, I promise," I lied. It was stupid of me to promise that because who knew if I would be okay? I didn't. Anything could happen. The voices could become stronger making me listen, or I could get stabbed by a murderer. The possibilities are endless, but sometimes, you have to lie to the ones you love to comfort them. It kind of contradicted my earlier statement about lying, I know, but like I said, grey areas. I leaned into the car and gave my mother a hug goodbye and watched her drive away, before walking away myself to God knows where.

I ended up in the small park by my house. It was dark out, but the park was well lit and there were still a few people walking around. I was sitting on a bench opposite a lake with ducks and geese. It was a pretty sight, but it wasn't like one of those lakes in the movies that was clear and the girl and her love interest jump in and splash around and then share a kiss. No, God, if you jumped into this lake, you'd probably catch something from a duck. Nonetheless, it was still pretty.
I was still admiring the view when a teenage boy approached me. I recognised him but I wasn't sure why.
"This seat taken?" He asked me, pointing at the space on the bench next to me.
"No, er, here," I moved my bag so he could sit down, albeit, slightly confused as to why he didn't pick one of the other nine benches that were empty.
"Autumn, right?" He turned to look at me and I turned too, seeing his blue eyes for the first time.
"Yeah... I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"No. Well, not really. I'm Ashton Wolfe, from the group?"
"Oh, right, yeah, er, sorry. I'm just a little out of it at the moment," I tried to make it sound like I wanted to be alone, but it didn't seem to have worked, as Ashton didn't move.
"So, everyone was pretty shocked with how you stood up to Thomas like that," he was still staring at me, but eye contact made me uncomfortable, and so I turned away slightly, but not in a rude manner.
"Yeah, maybe I could have handled it better, but it upset me, I don't know, maybe I was overreacting, but I still don't regret it," I explained. I had no idea if I was coming across as rude, and I cared. Its not like I wanted to impress him, but I care what people think about me, to an extent. It would be absolutely horrible to know someone thought I was rude; I can't stand rude people.
"You don't regret the suicide attempts?" Wait. What?
"Excuse me? What makes you think I've attempted suicide?"
"You were at the group for a reason, and no one gets that offended or passionate about something, unless they, themselves, have been through it,"
"I beg to differ. Not every story needs an explanation. Sometimes, a story is a story, no more, no less,"
"See, now I beg to differ, every story has an explanation, you just have to read between the lines,"
"You're starting to sound like my English teacher," I told him, which made him chuckle. Except, I wasn't trying to be funny, I was pretty sure that all English teachers say stuff like that.
"Its true, though. Read between the lines," as he said this, I turned to face him.
"Its not true. Not completely. Sometimes you don't need to read between the lines. In a book, if an author describes something as red, maybe he's foreshadowing or reflecting on the character's anger and violence, or maybe, just maybe, now hear me out, okay? Maybe, he wanted the bloody thing red,"
"You're a good writer," ha, he changed the subject. I win.
"How do you- Actually, forget it. I'll take your word for it. Thank you," I nodded slightly, and he gave me a small smile in return.
Now, if this was a movie, I'm pretty sure I'd be saying 'oh, my God, he's so dreamy, I want to be with him forever' and then he'd ask me to be his girlfriend and we'd live happily ever after. But life isn't like that. This isn't a movie. Sometimes, the princess stays locked away in her dollhouse, and there is no Prince Charming to save her.

Sometimes, the villains win.