It was a day in late September, on the way to the bathroom after lunch during Freshman Focus. Nolan hadn't been there that day, so I was alone with Corbin, trailing far behind the rest of the class. I quickly did my business, and while walking back up the hallway to the classroom Corbin playfully shoved me into the lockers, something he did often enough. It was when he did it again, and then a third time, that I made the comment.

"What're you, trying to kill me?" I laughed as I spoke, rolling my eyes.

"Yes! That's exactly it!" He replied with his normal feigned enthusiasm, smirking.

"But that's not how the pact works, we're supposed to kill each other!"

The teacher overheard this short lived conversation, and she looked shocked. We'd had conversations like this before, it was nothing new- but I wasn't exactly joking either.

"You know I'll have to report that, right?" She asked, almost timid yet with a sense of conviction about her that showed she meant business, but the next day came and went without a word from the office- and I felt that I was off the hook. Then I heard her voice while sitting in history talking to Nolan.

"We need Carmen Holang in Mrs. Brenson's office with all her things." Mrs. Brenson was my grade's counselor, one of three in the school.

"What'd you do?" Nolan asked me, giving me that look of his- a "what the fuck did you do" look.

"I.. dunno." I replied honestly. It never occured to me that it maybe have been because of the incident a few days ago. So, without another word, I packed up my things and took the short walk down the hallway to the counselor's office.

It was less of an office and more a small house sized room sectioned off into four smaller rooms. The main room was essentially a lobby of sorts, and it housed one counselor. To the left was a door that lead to Mrs. Brenson's office. There were two other offices and the records room down that small hallway.

When I walked in I noticed Corbin sitting just inside the door to Mrs. Brenson's office, and it hit me why we both were there. Someone then promptly explained to me, after coming to said realization, that my father was contacted to come retrieve me from school. I was apparently to sit there in silence, facing away from Corbin, until he came to get me. I wasn't allowed on my computer to work, and the quiet was headache inducing.

I remember pulling out a phone just a bit under the desk, where the counselor watching me in Mrs. Brenson's absence couldn't see, to check the time and to see whether my boyfriend had texted. Poor William tended to get worried. I almost immediately got in trouble.

I find it rather hilarious how they deal with students suffering from depression and anxiety.

I sat there and colored random shapes in my sketchbook and on scrap pieces of paper, trying to pass the time as painlessly as possible. My efforts were futile, but at least they were efforts.

Corbin left before I did, and when my father got there he and Mrs. Brenson had a short lived conversation about the ordeal. I was to get a risk assessment from a therapeutic firm before I could return to campus- this including all school activities. I'd be missing band practice.

Home we went, and I dropped off most of my things only to head straight to Region 8, one of the few mental health agencies we could get quick access to.

I felt awful, more awful than usual. It was bad enough just being depressed, even worse being thrown out of my daily routine, ripped away from the people I cared about, forced away from the things I loved to do- and even worse all of it being caused by the feelings I was ashamed of in the first place. It was heartbreaking.

The ride from home to Region 8 was mostly silent, solemn and filled with tension. There was nothing really to talk about, dad had heard it all. The sky was dark that day, filled with clouds. Gloomy, but still comforting to me in this time.

The clinic was in the middle of town, yet somehow still found a way to feel creepy and unwelcoming. A place to be avoided. In the gloom, the building sat just off the road. The crepe myrtles that lined the road at its entrance were barren and peeling- the bark that usually would remain lively and oddly beautiful year round dark and grey in the bluish tone of the afternoon.

I sighed before dragging myself out of the truck, it was a struggle to even pick up my backpack on the way.

Depression has a funny way of making the adventurous timid and the willing unwilling. There's nothing we could do about it, even if we wanted to. It's a sense of worthlessness so strong that even the best of people couldn't cure it. These feelings are made worse and worse when one doesn't feel worthy of even those negative emotions alone. "Other people have it worse.. Who am I to be upset?"

The asphalt shuffled under my feet, making crackling noises as all the small rocks that had surfaced from the gunk rocketed out from under me. Even the walk up to the door, such a short walk it was, was exhausting- as if I had hiked up a mountain rather than strolled up to the door of a place that, somehow, was supposed to help me.

It was wrong to be there. That much I knew. It was as if the building itself was pushing me away. "Don't come here," it said, "it's not worth it." The whole ordeal was frightening from the start. Kicked out of school, forced to this... place. Even the gloomy, dark fog of the clouds couldn't help me. It was perfect weather for a walk, but there is no time made for this walk.

We passed by tree after tree, making it to the doors. They were heavy, as if made of steel. Inside there was enough decor to obviously make the "homely" statement. It was supposed to be comforting, but it was only setting me off more.

This decorated area was a long hallway with doors lining the walls. The paneling looked like faux wood, yellowed and grained. Our door was the first one on the left.

The lobby was dark, depressing. It looked like a doctor's office would. Uncomfortable chairs lined the walls, the receptionists sat behind their bulletproof glass (glass that was nearly three inches thick). I took a seat while dad signed me in. I just stared. This was happening, but it couldn't be.

We sat in that room for hours, just waiting. A TV droned in the corner, playing game shows. Old reruns by the look of it. I found myself mildy invested, simply making an attempt to pass the time.

It was a blonde woman who came through the door, calling my name. She was a very nice woman, somewhat chipper- but genuine. She led me to a small office where I checked my weight and blood pressure.

To this day I don't understand the importance of that when dealing with one's mental health. I can speculate that maybe they're looking for things that could stem from self abuse, like starving one's self or- on the opposite end of the spectrum- eating too much.

After going through the usual- what's your name, any medical information we need to know- we sat in her office for a while. She asked a few questions, no doubt as a preliminary examination before heading to the actual therapist assigned to me, but then she put her computer away and we conversed normally. She asked me about my hobbies, to which I replied that I was an artist- it was my career choice.

She asked about my pieces, what I'd drawn. I offered to doodle her something quickly, and she gave me a sheet of paper- I of course already had a pencil. I only gave her about five minutes of work, something I'd drawn in full about a week earlier. She seemed impressed, but as I'd finished the therapist came to get me.

She was a black woman, short and round, but beautiful. She had a calmness about her that, although it didn't do much to calm me, seemed genuine. She led us down another slew of hallways to her office. There were children's drawings lining the walls, gifts. Obviously just things that she gave out, the same three or so coloring pages were repeated, but some of them were original pieces. It was obvious she was good at her job no matter what I felt about it.

She was a very reasonable lady. Almost genuine. She was kind, soft spoken, calm. An appropriate fit for the job of therapist.

Dad took a seat left and behind me, just barely out of my sight- while I took a seat just right of the center of the therapist's desk. The room felt uncomfortably full, as if there was no room to move or breathe. The light offered a soft, warm glow- one that would be comforting in other circumstances but here it only suffocated me more. It was less comforting than the darkest of glooms, oppressive against my skin and eyes as if it were the heat of an overbearing fire juxtaposed with the cold of frostbite all at once.

The meeting went rather quickly. She asked basic questions. "Have you been feeling useless? Is there a history of drug or alcohol abuse in your family? Do you report being manic then suddenly upset?", so on and so forth.

I say quickly, I mean quickly for a government mandated (or in this case school mandated) mental health meeting. It took an hour, hour and a half.

After that mess, we were sent home with promises of my risk assessment to come in the mail, and it did by the end of the week, a Thursday. I was back to school on Friday, and all seemed well- or so I thought.