"I see you've mainly marked fives," she began, sitting down at a desk. One hand referencing the sheet I had tediously filled out. I took a seat at the other end, and noticed how big her desk was, how much it separated us.
Does she want to be far away from me?
Is it my disease keeping her away?
I blocked out those thoughts, internally scoffing at myself. Like I had some sort of sickness.
Maybe I did. Maybe that's what brought me here. A sickness.
Of the body or mind?
Was there even a difference at all?
I got to talking, during that appointment. I told her about my accomplishments; achieving the highest grade of my class all four years of high school, graduating as valedictorian. And then, two years into college, everything... Kinda fell apart like a bridge with too much weight on it. Most days, I couldn't function. Most days, my stress took over my life. And everything just collapsed like taking down a house of cards. Just one functional foundational piece was pulled, and the rest came crashing.
I told her about my anxiety, wondering if feeling so small was truly anxiety after all. And she told me it was, and my heart dropped a few inches/feet lower in my chest, nearly descending to rest between my lungs.
I told her about my parents, and I told her about Skipper, the dog who was murdered by my neighbor. Nothing was confirmed, but I was young enough to realize and old enough to feel that pain last forever.
Death does that to you. It opens and destroys you at the same time.
I wish I knew differently. I wish my life was all rainbows and butterflies, but I had been surrounded by hurricanes and sharks instead.
When silence ticked on, when my attention was nearly distracted by the clock on the wall, she told to make another appointment, she told me she'd see me next week. Same time, same day, seven days later.
So I stood, gently thanking her. For what, I don't know, but I got to thinking as I crossed the small room and slipped out the doorway. I retraced the steps I had made in the hall, stepping out into the waiting room again.
The seats were empty, giving the place a desolate, creepy feel.
I thought of red hair and spiders. I thought of vinyls made out of ash. I thought of death, and it was thoughts like these that kept me up late at night.
That's just how my brain functioned, sometimes.