“How are you?” The question you hate hearing. It’s nice people care and all, but you hate answering.
What do I say? Do I lie? That’s all I’ve ever done and it has worked this far, so why not.
“I’m good, thanks!” you say with a huge smile that physically hurts.
You know the person who asked only did it because they felt obligated to. They look at you, eyes squinted, head tilted slightly to the left.
What’s going on? Why are they looking at me like this? Did I do something?
You look down at your lap as a last resort. Your heart feels like it’s going to explode. You try and calm down, but to no avail. You look up very carefully, they’re still looking at you in that weird way. It makes you feel uneasy.
Why is this happening? I should just leave, but I don’t want to be rude. Why are they doing this?
Then you realize why. It’s their job. They’re your counselor.
They just want to make sure I’m not going to cut myself open or jump off a bridge. They don’t really care. This is their job.
You sit in silence for a little longer while you let these thoughts play over and over in your head.
“Are you lying?” they ask, breaking the silence.
“No. I actually feel fine. Is this all because of these?” You pull up your sleeve defining “these” as self inflicted cuts. She looks at you and nods.
So if I would have just not told anyone, I wouldn’t be here. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.
You look at the clock. Twenty whole minutes of torture left. You look at the person sitting across from you dead in the eyes and ask, “What are you supposed to do for me? Are you supposed to just snap your fingers and make all of my problems just disappear?”
If that’s what I’m here for, can we just get it over with already?
“Not exactly. I’m here to help you handle your problems so that you’ll find it easier to get through them on your own, whatever they may be. So you have to talk to me. What caused you to cut yourself?”
Do I need to give them one reason? Can I lie my way out of this, too, or will they give me that weird look?
“Numbness.” You get very quiet again.
“Can you elaborate on that?” They smile.
“I feel nothing unless I make myself feel it, and that’s the only way I know how I guess.”
Why are we talking about this? There’s nothing they can do to help me. I’m hopeless.
Your eyes start watering and you look down again.
They tell you, “It’s okay to cry. We all do. You’re safe here. Nothing you tell me will leave this room.”
You break. You start sobbing uncontrollably. You feel a mix of emotions that your brain can’t even comprehend. You try to talk, but you can’t get anything out of your mouth.
“Here.” Your counselor hands you a piece of paper and a pencil so you can write down what you’re trying to say. You think for a moment before writing anything down.
Will they think I’m stupid for asking if this is normal? They said I’m safe.
You start writing to ask if what you’re feeling is normal. They read the paper.
“Yes, this is great! Some people don’t have this happen until a few sessions in, but I guess we’re moving a little quicker which is amazing!”
I don’t feel any better than before. I actually feel worse. This is all just causing someone to waste their time on someone who has no reason to live anymore.
“We’ll have to continue this next time, our time is up for today. You have a meeting scheduled for next Monday at 6:00.” Your mom must have scheduled ahead.
“Okay, thank you.” You say this still looking down, face wet and eyes bloodshot from crying.
There won’t be a next time. This isn’t working and I don’t want to waste any more of their time or my mom’s money.
As you walk out you see your mom and hope she doesn’t see you were crying. You keep your head down, watching your feet.
“Hey!” You see a familiar face smiling at you.
Why is my friend here? They’re always so happy.
You smile and wave as if to say hello and goodbye. You go right back to planning.
How am I going to do it? I can’t mess up. I can’t live.
“How was it?” Your mom looks at you and smiles through the rearview mirror.
“It went good...I think.”
“It will get easier to talk.”
The rest of the ride home is quiet. You tell your mom you’re not hungry. “I also have a lot of homework to do. I’ll eat later.”
That’s a lie. If all goes well, I’ll never eat again.
You grab your bag to make your lie more convincing. You wait a few minutes, then you start writing a note. I’m sorry mom. Those are the only words you could write. You didn’t have anything else to say. You look at the window for a few minutes before opening it and removing the screen. You climb out and feel a cold autumn breeze hit your face. Your eyes water, but you’re not sure if it’s from the wind or if you’re genuinely crying. You wipe your eyes and stand up. Looking down over the edge, you freeze.
Is this really what I want? Should I say bye to anyone else? Actually, there’s one more person.
You think of your friend you saw at the office. You find their number in your phone and hope they answer.
“Hi, I just wanted to say...uh...I just wanted to say goodbye.” Your voice starts shaking.
“What do you mean? Are you okay? Where are you?” They sound nervous.
“I’m on my roof. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.” You mean it when you say you’re sorry.
“Please don’t do it. You mean a lot to so many people. Please get inside. I’ll come to your house if I need to.”
Do they have my address? I hope not.
You look around and say nothing. You hear your mom screaming your name. You hear your friend’s voice tell you that “everything is going to be okay” and for the first time, you believe it. You look at your mom and cry.
She grabs you and pulls you into the window. She cries more and says, “Everything is going to be okay.”
Maybe I am going to be okay.
