I sit here in the counselors office, describing to a total stranger who I am.
What makes me tick.
What makes me sad.
What makes me happy.
What foods I have a craving for around the odd hours of the morning.
What my favorite color is.
What I enjoy doing most.
What I want to do for a living.
I tell this person all these things as they try and wrap their head around me and try to figure me out.
The first visit usually goes well.
They tell me they'd like to see me again and then send me off.
The next visit, however, is much different.
They ask me a series of questions, all of which simply consist of a yes or no answer.
Are you depressed most of the day/ feeling sad, empty, hopeless or on verge of tears?
Have you experienced loss of pleasure or interest in activities that you once enjoyed?
Have you gone through a sudden weight loss or weight gain?
Do you have difficulty sleeping or are you overly tired?
Do you sometimes feel worthless or guilty?
Do you find it hard to concentrate or make decisions?
I answer without hesitation. All of the answers being yes.
Then finally, the last question.
Do you think about death or suicide?
It catches me off guard, the word suicide. Yes, of course I had thought about it... though I was always much too chicken to ever go through with it.
I open my mouth to answer but I can't, my throat beginning to burn as a knot forms inside of it. Then warm, salty tears begin to streak down my cheeks and fall onto my jeans, leaving small, wet circles all over my pants.
The counselor reaches over for a tissue box. A rectangular tissue box that's plainly colored blue. Not a bright blue nor a dark blue. The sort of blue that you'd see on a nice day with no clouds in the sky. That blue.
I take the box, knowing they wouldn't hold there for me forever.
It felt light, half empty maybe, making me think about how many others had used this tissue box. How many people sat in this exact same seat and did the exact same thing I am.
I set the box down on the table, not bothering to grab one even though I was so kindly given the opportunity. But, I just wasn't used to tissues.
There were no tissues for me at three in the morning in the darkness of my bed room. The only thing I had was my shirt.
My eyes would grow puffy from wiping them so much with the cotton fabric, which caused for more irritation.
At three in the morning the only one to keep me company was myself. The only sounds filling the absence were my box fan and my sobs.
Why three in the morning? Well, that's just when I felt the need to be sad. My mind would keep me awake, forcing me to think.
I hate thinking.
Thinking always leads to crying myself to sleep. So I'd occupy myself. I'd draw, I'd watch a movie, I'd write, I'd watch YouTube videos.
Then two thirty rolls around and my eyes lids begin to feel heavy. I'd turn everything off, lay down, close my eyes and try to sleep.
Sure enough, as soon as I do my mind begins to wander again.
I think about how dumb I am.
How mad my parents are going to be because I stayed up so late.
How much school is going to suck.
How much I wish I were someone else or someone better.
I'd begin to belittle myself. I'd pick and poke at everything that's wrong with me until they were swollen and had overcome any good that existed inside of me.
I'd cry. I'd cry for hours. I'd cover my mouth so my crying wasn't loud and I'd hold my stomach in effort to reduce the pain, though it never worked.
On bad days I'd shake. But I couldn't move. I'd shake and cry and there would be nothing I could do about it and no one was ever there to help.
But, of course, who would be?
Who would be around at three in the morning to listen to me aimlessly ramble about the things I've already told them a million times?
It's not like they'd understand.
I'd tell them I'm sad and they would tell me to stop.
Don't you think if I knew how I would've done it already?
That's like telling me to push through a brick wall, or climb over a cloud.
The counselor pulls me out of my day dream, telling me that I'm welcome to use the tissues instead of my shirt.
I shake my head, wiping away the stains on my cheeks that the tears had left with my shirt.
The counselor would ask why I didn't want to use the tissies. I would go to answer them yet again, but the only thing that would ever come out were noises. No words, and even though there were plenty of things I wanted to say I couldn't. I never knew why. There has just always been a barrier between my mouth and my thoughts.
Very rarely do I actually express my emotion, and maybe that's why I feel this way.
Though, I'll never know. I'll just have to keep coming back every week until I can actually muster up some words to tell my counselor. I'll think about it more once I get home. Maybe plan out what I'll say if they ask me something, then think of what I should say. Because I know that if I try and say what I actually feel then I'll just start crying again, and we won't get anywhere.
I'll simply be offered some tissues.