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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.
"How have you been in regards to your parents? Have you noticed any improvements in connection and communication? Are you adjusting well at home?"
Although Pamela is my psychologist, sometimes she seems more like an interrogator. Three questions jam-packed into one off-hand sentence? I barely had time to process any of that, nevertheless, compose a decent answer. At least she isn't asking me any of those uncomfortable, personal questions like "are you sexually active?"
Every minute of every session, I dread the moment Pamela will poke and pry about my new foster parents. Once I was old enough, I had hoped the government would just throw me out onto the street and tell me to fend for myself, but some legal fuckery tells me I have to stay in the foster care system.
I've been living with the Jacksons for about 2 months now. They're real do-gooders, always preaching about God and whatnot. But despite the fact the Jacksons incessantly chirp about their faith in heaven, every day I'm with them feels like Hell.
"Hello? Chloe? Do I have to ask you again?" Pamela speaks sternly.
I glance back at her and exhale deeply. This is an excruciatingly long session... "We've been fine," I sigh, picking off the last piece of nail polish and flicking it across the room.
She taps her pen on the clipboard. The expression on her face seems like she's my teacher and I just told her my dog ate my homework, "How fine?" she asks skeptically.
"Fine," I repeat louder and with emphasis, "We've been doing fine."
"Are you socializing with them, or have you been detached?"
"Sometimes I just want to be left alone," I respond, "And sometimes those times are all the time."
Pamela did not look happy at the sound of my humor. But it's not my fault that she can't appreciate good comedy. She was such a stick in the mud, as most people who reached her age were. I think it's some unwritten, universal law that once you're a boring grown-up, you have to start dressing in frumpy clothes and have stinky coffee breath all the time. Besides the fact she wears the same hideous, pencil skirt each therapy session, I don't think she knows what life is like after black and white television.
"Isolation is not the answer to your problems," she says, "Love is..."
I chuckle under my breath, "If love is the answer, will you rephrase the question?"
Pamela was struggling with attempt not to aggravate the situation. She readjusted herself and asked more inane questions, "What have you been doing for fun? Are you being active?" she pauses and then arches an eyebrow, "Are you watching TV on the couch again?"
I roll my eyes, "No, I'm sitting on the TV and watching the couch."
Pamela sighs and pinches the space between her eyebrows, "Okay Chloe... Clearly, you are not in a cooperative mood today... I'm done picking your brain," she stands up from her seat, "Our session is over anyhow."
Pamela writes the last bit of information on her clipboard and then hands the paper to me, "Give this to your parents," she says while leading me out the room.
When I scan over the note, my eyes widen with shock, "You're prescribing more medication?"
"Chloe, your mental health has not been getting better... In fact, it just might be getting worse. I'm very concerned about the state of your depression. Your sense of apathy towards life and your family is... worrisome," then she smiles that fake smile I hate so much, "You're a teenager, and it's normal to have bad days... But the severity and frequency of your bad days, is not."
I scowl at her with a face as sour as lemons.
How can I be deemed abnormal, when nobody truly understands me?
I want to speak in my defense. I want to be seen. I want to be heard. And yet, nothing I have to say would make much sense. The act of articulating my thoughts and feelings can be such an impossible task - more often than not. And it hurts... because the worst kind of sadness is the kind that you aren't able to explain.
Ultimately, I endure all the assumptions and shallow speeches of advice. It's much less painful than expressing your feelings, only to hear the words, you have no reason to feel that way.
Has anyone ever considered that maybe I don't want to defend the validity of my feelings, but rather, be truly acknowledged, empathized, and then maybe even be shown the possibility that there are better feelings in this world to feel?
I know it's too much to ask someone to show me what it's like to be happy again. I don't intend to burden anyone. And that is why I would rather be alone. Because when you're alone, you can't hurt anybody... and what's even better, is that nobody can hurt you either.
This world is full of judgmental people who are full of themselves. Most people can't resist their own narcissism and can't seem to withstand a conversation that isn't about them. Quite frankly, people love talking about themselves. And they hate the idea of someone who interrupts that.
I think that might be the reason why sad people aren't likable people. If you don't cater to the judgment or someone's self-centered notion of how you should be, then suddenly, you have become a liability to them - nothing but a wet blanket... Deadweight.
Throughout my life, I've been called "Debbie Downer" more than I've been called my own name. Perhaps it's easier to avoid an unhappy person, as opposed to getting to know them.
It's unfortunate. And it causes the belief that you are too broken for anyone to love. If you're not happy, you're not good company, and if you're not good company, you're not good enough.
These are the things I might consider talking about with Pamela. If it seemed like she even cared. Despite the fact she is my psychologist, I know I'm nothing more than a run-of-the-mill client with the typical, so-called mental health issues.
Pamela just wants to diagnose me and add to her scribbles. That's how people like her get their fancy plaques for their office walls... It sickens me that my problems pay her salary.
"I'll see you soon," she says, her eyes completely void of all compassion, "Have a good day."
I stomp out of her office and begin walking to the Jackson's house. I take a moment to read the note that Pamela gave me earlier.
Mr. and Mrs. Jackson,
The current state of Chloe's depression has become quite severe, despite the prescribed medication she has - supposedly - been taking. It seems that Chloe is still struggling to cope with her mental health and therefore, she has become apathetic and pessimistic.
I have noticed that Chloe uses sarcasm as a defense mechanism, and she has not been very cooperative during our sessions.
I have increased her daily dosage and I request you to ensure she follows the regimen. Furthermore, I would strongly recommend encouraging her to engage in social activities and spend time outdoors.
- Dr. Pamela Franklin M.D.
I crumple the paper somewhat and release an irritated groan.
Within 15 minutes time, I arrive at the Jackson's house. I have the tendency to walk faster when I'm angry... That could be the reason that cooped-up housewives exercise by speed-walking through the neighborhood with small hand-weights; because they are actually exerting all the pent-up anger they have suppressed due to the fact their monotonous sex lives are suffering and their mid-life-crisis, white-collar husbands only talk to them over trivial, dinner table conversations.
I stare at the white-painted house with light-blue shudders and the floral curtains that are draped inside the windows. The yard is perfectly mowed thanks to the landscaper and the rose bushes are perfectly trimmed thanks to the gardener. Despite how often I look at this house, it still doesn't resonate with me that I live here. It's pristine but not comfortable. Kind of like when you're staying at a hotel; only the hotel has no room service and you're being yelled at every day to not leave your dirty laundry on the floor.
As I trudge up the steps, I prepare myself for the hurricane of smothering hugs and how'd-it-go's. I open the door and then slowly enter the ominous cave of potted plants, ugly paintings, and miscellaneous knick-knacks that were acquired from Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
My foster mother Susan is being the typical Stepford housewife, prancing around the kitchen, her pink kitten heels clacking against the floor, and most likely cooking something gluten-free. And let's not forget about hardworking, middle-class, all-American, Robert who's at the kitchen table perusing the newspaper with a cup of coffee. He's usually reading about the weather and whatnot, which I personally never understood, because he could just watch the news on TV.
Susan places a large tray of casserole in the oven and then wipes her oven-mitts off on her floral-patterned apron. Her blue eyes widen and sparkle when she turns around to see me.
"Chloe!" she gushes, tossing her oven mitts on the countertop and rushing over toward me.
She attempts to wrap her arms around me, but I recoil from her touch. Susan stops mid-hug. With a half-hearted smile, she emits a weak chuckle and then backs away.
I hate any form of physical contact. Susan knows this. But every time she tries to hug me, I think she's hoping that I'll eventually hug her back.
"Hello, Chloe..." Robert greets me without looking up from his newspaper.
"How was your session dear?" Susan asks.
"It was great," I remark with a facetious smile, "I only thought about chugging bleach 3 times."
Susan furrows her brows with confusion, demonstrating her typical lack of understanding in regard to simple sarcasm, "What does that mean?" she says.
Although Susan is as sweet as cherry pie, the poor woman is utterly dense... to the unfortunate extent that I have lost track of how many instances Susan has proved her lack of intelligence.
Like when she asked what continent Australia was located on...
Or when she asked what Obama's last name was...
And who could forget about the question: How big is the Specific Ocean?
I release a sigh and then hand Pamela's note to Susan, "The Dragon Lady wants me to give you this delightful assassination of my character."
Susan scans over the note and then frowns, "Oh, my... An increase in your dosage?" she looks at me, "Sweetheart, are you okay?"
I glance over at Robert who is paying no mind to the matter. Then I form a sardonic response, "No, Susan... I'm not okay. They actually found a tumor in my liver, and a deadly cancer - very deadly - in my arteries. I also have salmonella from your cooking. I'm dying tomorrow at 3:00."
She becomes confused again, "What? Chloe, what are you talking about?"
I groan, "Jesus Christ, I'm kidding..."
She points an angry finger at me, "Don't you dare use His name in vain young lady!"
"Add that to the long list of reasons why I'm damned," I roll my eyes with a heavy sigh, "If the Devil calls, tell him I'm busy and to schedule an appointment. I have plans to take a nice, relaxing bath with a toaster tonight."
"Chloe, you know I don't like when you talk like that..." then she asks me a question once the thought dawns upon her, "Did you take your medication this morning?"
I nod. However, I need medication like a fish needs a raincoat. If I'm already apathetic about life, what is the point of routinely taking a small pill that drains me of all enthusiasm and energy? Medication is orange-bottled suppression that makes you feel tired, for the sake of conforming to society's expectations of how you should behave.
I plop down onto the couch and slump in my seat.
Susan scoffs loudly, "Chloe, how many times do I have to tell you to cross your legs?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Because you need to sit like a lady," she nags.
I fold my arms and narrow my eyes into thin slits, "I despise the ancient notion that women must behave a certain way to be considered proper and feminine... It's all thanks to the painfully trite and biased belief that we must be perfect role models for a generation of other brainwashed women who are also expected to follow the obnoxious stereotypes that plague our society.
It's just a method to secure the ignorant convictions and sexist expectations formed by outdated gender norms. Therefore establishing the positions within a hierarchy that supports a patriarchy that's older than the invention of sliced bread..." I pause for effect, "I'm serious... Google it."
"There you go again," Susan raises her arms and then flops them back down to her sides in a dramatic display of her frustration, "You're always rambling about your opinions and silly theories. Why can't you be like normal kids your age, Chloe?"
"I'm not a kid," I mention briskly, "I'm almost 18... And quite frankly, I refuse to conform to cowardly silence and this superficial illusion called being normal just so other people think that my truth is easier to swallow..." I form a smug expression, "I have a spine, thank you."
I turn around and begin to exit the room.
However, Susan interrupts, "Where do you think you're going, young lady?"
"I'm going to my room." I respond matter-of-factly, "So if you need me... Don't."
"Come back here, please."
I groan and stomp back into the kitchen, "Why?"
Susan props her hands on her hips and stares at me, "Dinner is almost ready. Why don't you find something fun to do in the meantime?"
I arch a brow at her dubiously, "Like what?"
"Like maybe solve a crossword puzzle or read the latest People magazine."
"I think we have two very different ideas of what fun is..."
"I honestly don't care what you do, Chloe," she sighs, "As long as your eyes aren't glued to that computer screen of yours while you're surfing the web and instant messaging on Facebook."
I chuckle with a sneer on my face, "Nobody goes on Facebook anymore."
"My point is," she quickly adds as a sudden afterthought, "Being cooped up in your room all day isn't healthy. You need to start developing a social life and some hobbies that aren't sleeping and watching YouCube videos."
"It's YouTube videos, Susan," I shake my head and groan quietly, "Besides, you should be proud that I'm a responsible teenager who would prefer to stay home as opposed to running the streets with hooligans and taking drugs."
"That's worst case scenario," she argues, "I just want you to explore a world outside of your bedroom, sweetie."
"But does the world outside my bedroom have books, fuzzy blankets, and free wi-fi? I think not."
I could tell Susan was getting desperate to convince me otherwise. She smiles warmly and tries to approach the situation differently, I suppose, "I want you to make some new friends," she admits, "You barely see the kids from school anymore."
"Yeah, well, I've kind of become a social pariah and I don't appreciate when they call me names and exclude me from sitting at their lunch tables," I shrug casually, "Besides, they're all two-faced anyways. All they like to do is spread rumors and not invite me to their parties."
"What about that one, lovely, young girl? Oh, what was her name?" she taps her chin thoughtfully, "Um... Allison? Wait, Aliyah... No, Alyssa!"
"It was Alexis," I correct, "And she's just like the rest of those mean bitches at school."
"That's a nickel for the swear jar," she says with frustration. After sighing deeply, Susan tilts her head and furrows her brows in confusion, "What could have possibly happened between you girls? I thought you two were friends."
"I thought so too..." I reply with disappointment. I realize that I sound upset and then clear my throat to alleviate any sense of sadness.
Before I found out that Alexis Riley was actually Regina George in disguise, we were practically best friends. Or at least, the closest thing I've ever had to a best friend. We hung out a few times after school, which would mostly comprise of going to the shopping mall and listen to her gossip about other people. She wasn't exactly what you would call a lovely, young girl. I think the nicest thing she ever did for me was let me borrow her pencil in math class.
I told Alexis that I had a crush on this really hot guy in our class named Gabe Parker. He played football, drove a black Mustang, and was totally out of my league. However, the farthest our encounters ever went was a riveting, 3-minute conversation about homework after I accidentally bumped into him in the hallway. I would replay that scenario over and over in my mind thinking about how I should have confessed my love to him. But I continued to sit on the bleachers after school and watch him at football practice hoping one day I'd have the guts to say something.
One night, I was at a party when I saw Alexis with her tongue down Gabe's throat. When I confronted them, she said they had started dating and then she laughed right in my face. Gabe starting laughing too and made really disgusting, sexual gestures with his hands.
Apparently, she told everyone that I had oral sex with this weirdo named Henry Grossman in the gym's locker room. Thanks to Alexis, the rumor spread like wildfire and everyone at school started calling me Blowy-Chloe.
"I'm sorry to hear that you girls aren't friends anymore," Susan says apologetically, "I still remember the day I took you both to the movies. You had such a great time. I think Alexis was a good influence on you. She was a very polite, respectable, young lady."
"Respectable?" I repeat and then dramatically roll my eyes, "Oh please, she's been on more wieners than Heinz ketchup."
"Chloe! That is nasty talk and I will not hear that."
"At least I'm brutally honest," I claim in my own defense, "I'd rather be alone than around fake friends who don't give a shit about me."
"Well, I don't want you to be alone," she says while becoming more frustrated by the second, "Most teenagers are joining book clubs, going out to the movies and... Lord help me... dating."
"I'm mentally dating a celebrity that doesn't know I exist," I remark.
"You need real relationships, sweetie," Susan smiles and telling by the expression on her face I know she would hug me if she could, "Proverbs 27:9, a sweet friendship refreshes the soul," she quotes with a casual shrug of her shoulders.
I gulp down a lump in my throat and press my lips together, "You can't refresh what has already rotted down to the core..." I mumble under my breath.
"You should go and get some fresh air," she suggests kindly with a tinge of concern in her voice. She looks at my report card and points to it, "Your therapist says here that the outdoors might help your depression."
"I don't have depression," I dispute with bitterness dripping from my teeth, "It's a blanket term for teenagers who are fucked up and there's no explanation why."
For the first time since I had gotten back to the house, Robert finally looks up from his newspaper and speaks, "Well, Chloe... Why don't you take a nice, long walk and take the time to ponder your own explanation why?"
I glare at him, "Whatever..." I grumble before stomping out of the room.
I quickly exit the house and slam the door, but not nearly as hard as I want to. There is suppressed anger bubbling inside of me like a soda can that had been shaken up and was ready to explode. I take my anger out on a small rock on the sidewalk and kick it away from my path. My hands are buried in my pockets while I amble down the street.
I was upset by the fact that my foster parents wouldn't accept that I wanted to be alone, and I was even more upset by the fact that I wanted to be alone in the first place, and I was the most upset by the fact that I hated being alone altogether.
I put in my headphones and started listening to the first song that played. Somehow, music always made me forget that I hated my life. I cling to lyrics, poetry, literature, and other forms of art because I so desperately don't want to feel alone. I don't want to feel misunderstood. I want to feel like there is something - or someone - in this world that doesn't think I'm crazy. Perhaps I even want someone to explain the things I can't.
My entire life I have never felt like I belonged anywhere. I was different - the freaky foster kid with emotional issues and a weird sense of humor. Eventually, I started to hide the real me so well, that I forgot who I was entirely.
I was so accustomed to being judged by others, that I just stopped opening up to people. Whenever I learned to trust someone, I wound up getting hurt. Over time I learned that it was just easier to be distant than to get too close.
I like to be alone but I hate being lonely... Now isn't that fucked?
To achieve my isolation, I disguise my fear and self-loathing with sarcasm. I think it's become less of a defense mechanism and more of just a twisted kind of laziness. Like if I'm too hard to approach in the first place, then I won't have to bother pushing people away. Having no friends can be boring, but at least I'm safe. That's the way I like it and that's the way I'll keep it.
I start to wander down the street towards The Gray Coastline, which is my favorite location here in Seabrooke. Living in a small town is rather boring, but it has its perks. Everything is within walking distance.
About half a mile from the Jackson's house is a winding road that snakes through a flood of trees. Hidden underneath overgrown brush and crumbled rocks, I slowly venture down the old, dirt pathway. I think the fact it's abandoned was the initial appeal to me, for I knew that I would never find someone walking through the deserted area. It's somewhere I could get away from everyone.
The trees climb up the steep slope of the hillside and once you reach the top you enter a large meadow. Beyond the meadow is a barren beach. The seashore is surrounded by plants, dense fog, weeping trees, lifeless scrubs, and tons of moss-covered stones. Although the bleak oceanside is uninviting, there is something about the sad scene that makes me feel so comfortable.
I continue walking up the hill until I reach the meadow. I start to meander through the grassy-green fields when all of a sudden, I stop in my tracks. My eyes widen in surprise and then quickly narrow in aggravation. Something was tainting the perfect seclusion of the meadow.
A teenage boy is in the middle of the meadow, sitting on his red bike and staring off into the distance. He seems so pleased to be doing nothing. I'm almost envious of his happiness, for he has this gentle smile on his face. I continue to observe him out of pure curiosity.
His curly, brown hair is thick and lustrous. It shines under the sunlight, illuminating each individual ringlet. It's messy and unkempt - either tousled by the wind or his lack of maintenance. His skin is glowing and slightly tan like he has been enjoying his time outdoors this summer. The boy was wearing a white t-shirt and skinny, denim jeans that made him look like he was just copied and pasted into the world from a fashion magazine.
I look down and realize I'm standing in the bushes, watching some cute boy from afar like a stalker. Wow, I've really evolved into a new, advanced breed of loser. I continue to stare at him until he gets up and begins to walk down to the beach.
I follow him down to the sand and watch as the boy aimlessly wanders down the seashore, dragging his rickety, red bike behind him. I arch a brow and watch the somehow irksome, cheerful stride he has. His bouncy steps make him appear like he's in some kind of music video or maybe even a fashion runway. Who in their right mind walks like that?
The more I look at him, the more irritated I become. He reminds me of those perky people in school that have lots of friends and raises their hand for every question the teacher asks. He's just so... happy. Seemingly, for no reason. I can't even fathom being like that.
There are very few things that can make me even remotely happy: music, a new book, or when my food comes out of the microwave. But this boy seems thrilled just to be on the beach with his beat-up, old bike. He drags his feet through the sand and gazes out at the ocean, his lips curled into a satisfied smile. When suddenly, he looks over his shoulder... directly at me.
Oh, shit! I think to myself, Housten, we have a problem! We've been spotted! Abort mission!
I gulp nervously and slowly turn around, hoping that he didn't see me.
Of course, he saw you, idiot! I scold myself mentally, You're the only person within a hundred-mile radius! Good job, now you've initiated social interaction.
Maybe I still have a chance to escape. I cringe internally at the uncomfortable situation and attempt to sneak away without any further encounter. However, my plan to abort is ruined when he grins widely and summons me.
"Hey!" he shouts, waving his hand in the air.
Mission failed, I think to myself in defeat.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thank you for reading this chapter, it means the world to me! I can't express how happy it makes me when I read your comments or get notifications of your votes! Any amount of support on this story makes me smile like a goofball!!! :D
I started writing this story when I was maybe about 12 or 13. Since I was so young when I wrote BBAAW, there were a lot of errors, inconsistencies and immature aspects that had been written into this story.
Although I wanted to finish the book, the truth is, I didn't have the time to re-write the whole story. I was really focused on my main project, my novel series Howls into the Void (please feel free to check it out on my profile!) and didn't want to take a detour.
I gave up on this story for a few years... Until now. I'm 17 and I finally decided to give it a chance again! After my mother convinced me she wanted a happy ending for Chloe and Casper, I realized that I did as well. Hence why I revised the entire rough draft and began writing BBAAW again!
*the crowd cheers with enthusiasm, fireworks sparkle in the horizon, Obama is there*
In hindsight, I wish I would have made that decision a lot sooner. But it's better now than never! Since I published the first rewritten chapter, I have reached 705 reads on this book!
That's 705 living, breathing, and individual people who have read my book!
I'm so thankful for each and every one of them! I can't wait to reach my next milestone, which is 1K. When I look at all millions of reads on popular Teen Fiction books, I dream about the day that my book will be among them :')
Dammit, now I'm getting all sentimental lol... Anyways, thank you again for reading and I look forward to more of your engagement with this book!
Yours,
Paris
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《 Published September 16th, 2018 》
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