Bikes, Beaches and Afternoon Waffles

01 | Misunderstood

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A QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE

I've always dreamed of being recognized for my writing, having millions of reads, a plethora of genuine comments, wonderfully dedicated readers, and perhaps even ranking #1 on the discover page. Currently, I have 705 reads on BBAAW. I'm hoping that one day people will love this book and my characters as much as I do. If that dream ever comes true, here's what I have to say on my behalf: I want this message to inspire other writers on this platform. If your book isn't getting the recognition or response you want, just remember to be patient and stay positive!

- Paris Monet, 2018

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SONG FOR THE CHAPTER

❝ Riptide ❞ by Vance Joy

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Depression is when you don't care about anything. Anxiety is when you care too much about everything. And having both is just Hell.

At least that's the way it's been explained to me by my psychologist; I'm paraphrasing of course.

I truly hate the concept of mental illness and how the term is thrown at you after 2 minutes of talking to any brain-picker with glasses and a vague, superficial understanding of who you are. Truthfully, I think people just want to place labels on me because they desperately want a word to define what they don't understand - and that's simply what I've always been: misunderstood.

The shrink's fingers are a fervid blur as her ballpoint pen taps and skips across her clipboard. I arch a skeptical eyebrow as I observe. I have always wondered what Pamela so frantically scribbles about on that paper. She could be writing the improved version of the First Amendment. Or she could simply be jotting down the forgotten items from her grocery list.

I wouldn't know.

Whichever the case, I'm sure the scribbles are as flat and boring as our weekly talk therapy.

I grumble impatiently and squirm around in my seat trying to get comfortable. My thighs are chafing against the leather chair that is hot and sticky from the summer weather. For some unknown reason, Pamela refuses to turn on the air conditioning. Although she has a small, oscillating fan perched on her desk, it's about as useless as those hand-dryers in public bathrooms that never quite seem to get the job done because of the pitifully low air pressure.

Pamela flips through her several pages of chicken scratch. It can probably pass as cursive if you squint hard enough, but honestly, it looks like Egyptian Hieroglyphics at best, "You were recently prescribed a new antidepressant, correct?" she asks me without much thought.

I nod and continue to lazily pick the chipped, black nail polish off my thumb. The idle activity is far from fascinating, but even that offers more entertainment than anything Pamela has blabbered about within the past 30 minutes. I'm beginning to think the only escape from this room is if the paramedics wheeled me out on an ambulance stretcher after I'm bored to death.

Pamela smiles vacantly, "That's great. Have you been taking them?"

I nod.

She bobs her head with false attentiveness and then scribbles yet again. How could it be possible to write anything in response to that singular nod of my head? Eventually, it dawns upon me that I'm not sitting in a clinical office, but rather, purgatory... with fluorescent lighting.