space dust || boyf riends

one

one - i was just born like this

The only good thing about therapy is that I get to miss school for an hour and a half, and I usually get a cheeseburger afterwards. I hate having to explain why I'm like this when I just don't know. Dr. Wilson is great, believe me. I'd probably be her friend if she wasn't my therapist. But she gets on my nerves and sometimes I just wanna slap her across the face. I don't know why I'm like this. Why can't she understand that?

Last night was kind of a trainwreck. I feel like my dad understands my issue more than my mom does. When he got home, he didn't bombard me with questions, which relieved me but pissed Mom off. Then she argued with him about it. While that was happening downstairs, I sat in my room, ate snickerdoodles and watched Cavetown videos among other things. When I woke up this morning, everything seemed fine. Dad was asleep on the couch (as per usual), and Mom was getting ready for the day.

As Dr. Wilson closes the door behind her, I decide to lay across the loveseat. It feels disrespectful, but she encourages me to get as comfortable as possible when I'm here. I decided that I'd take up on that offer today.

She's twenty-seven, I think. Her hair is long and dark. She's Hispanic, and her accent doesn't show very much, but it sounds nice when it does. She's not incredibly skinny or anything, but she's not chubby. It's not like I've been checking her out or anything, no. I've just noticed a lot about her. I like boys, not therapists who are ten years older than me.

She pulls her spinny chair from around her desk and stays a few feet away from me, like there's something wrong with me. There's tons of things wrong with me, but she doesn't need to stay away like that. It just pisses me off and adds to the urge to slap her.

"Good morning, Jeremy." She tells me.

"You said that already." I point out.

She ignores me. I think that's a bad idea if you're a therapist. "How's your morning been so far?"

"It's been fine," I lie. I know where this conversation is headed, so I just dive right in. "School's kinda hard, I guess. New kids and whatever."

"Have you made any friends?"

I shake my head. "Nope. And I'm not going to."

"That's your plan?"

"Mhm," I nod. "No friends, less pain. You know?"

I glance at Dr. Wilson, who's staring at me. That stupid voice in my mind tells me that she's judging me for not wanting friends. Somehow annoyed by that voice, I sit back up and I pretend like nothing happened.

"I can try and make friends if you want me to," I offer, though I know I'm lying to her. "I already promised Mom that I would."

"It could be good for you," She agrees. "If that's what you'd like to try, I'd say go for it."

The thing is, I don't want to try that at all. Last time I had friends, people got hurt. I got hurt. Bad things happened and I don't want them to happen again.

"Maybe." I respond instead, looking down at my worn out Converse. "I don't know."

I feel her stare. It's very, very reassuring. A few moments of awkward silence pass by, then she moves onto another sensitive topic. "Is anything at home bothering you?"

"How'd you guess...?" I ask, even though I know. My parents have been arguing since I was nine, and I've been going to therapy here for a year, so Dr. Wilson knows pretty much all of it.

"Lindsay's a little worried about you," She admits. Of course. Of course Mom mentioned something to her. "She thinks that maybe whatever's going on is affecting you."

"Well, they're arguing again. She refuses to divorce him," I tell her. "I don't know why. It should happen, especially since neither of them have much to stay for, but it hasn't."

"Well...have they told you that?"

"No..." I admit. "But it's there. I know it's there. They're just pretending."

And then I notice her clipboard. Her moving pen. The way she glances down and back up at me, how she's writing all of this down.

Fuck.

I know it's supposed to stay between us, but what if it doesn't? If my parents found out what I'm saying, they'd probably hate me forever, even more than they already do.

My breath gets caught in my throat. I hate being hated, but it feels like everyone hates me. My old friends from my old school, my teachers, my parents, everyone at my new school. All I did was exist. I've never done anything to them.

Well, I don't think I did.

Next thing I know, hot tears are rolling down my cheeks. I have no idea if Dr. Wilson was trying to talk to me. I stifle my sobs and I bury my face into my sleeves. I look so red and ugly when I cry. She's trying to offer a tissue to me, I'm sure, but I don't want to look up. I don't want her to hate me too.

It all starts to hurt. My chest feels so tight. My hands are sweaty and I feel them trembling. Not another panic attack. Please, not another one. I hate these. I hate them so much.

I feel a hand wrap around my wrist, pulling my arm away from my face gently. I don't want it to happen at first, but I feel her grab my hand. She squeezes it in a motherly way and I finally let it happen. This isn't the first time I've broken down crying here. Dr. Wilson knows what'll make me feel better, kind of like a friend. But she's not my friend. She's my therapist.

I squeeze her hand back, but not too tight. Just enough to make me feel better. I hope she doesn't mind how sweaty mine is. She never really does.

I focus on my breathing like she advises me to. I'm eventually ready to open my eyes and return to the real world with my shaky hands and existential fear. Dr. Wilson hands me the tissue and I wipe away my tears. She's too nice. I press my cold hand against my burning face to bring some relief, then I toss the tissue into the tiny trashcan next to her desk.

"Can I go...? Can I leave?"

She nods, a gentle smile appearing across her face. I think it's supposed to be comforting, but it's not. "We can try again for next week."

-

It's been two weeks since I broke down in my therapist's office. I haven't gone back since.

Everything just seems to have gotten worse, but that could be side effects of my meds. Mom decided to get me back on antidepressants. I don't really mind it, I guess. Having more serotonin is nice. I just think that she's absolutely stupid for doing that. Sure, she monitors me when I take them, but you'd think that she wouldn't let her suicidal son take pills.

I've been sitting alone at lunch for the past two weeks. My spot in the cafeteria changes all the time. Nobody's really tried to talk to me, which is okay. It's good. It means my plan is going the way that it was supposed to. I won't have a repeat of what happened before.

Their arguing seems like it'll never stop. I wish my parents would just make up, or maybe just get rid of me. I don't distract myself anymore when it happens. I just listen through my bedroom floor with my ear pressed to the carpet. I hear my name get tossed in there a few times, stuff about money, stuff about happiness.

They're so unhappy. I wonder if I'm happier than they are, but I'm probably not. I'm so tired. So tired of feeling empty, of feeling absolutely nothing. I've been putting up with it for almost four years, and not even three attempts could make it stop.

When will it finally end?

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