1. waiting rooms

Side note: Found it when digging through some files for my French final and was iffy about it. Writing stories is a lot of commitment that I'm not used to.

I'm sitting in the waiting room for my first, official psychologist appointment. The paint on the walls is dull, a white that's vaguely turning yellow from the smoking that had occurred. There is no waiting music, no pleasant hum of a printer, and no occasional phone call at the secretary's desk. The thickness in the air is not tense, or static: it is dead. There are no opportunities. Any reason you have for being here is not a good one.

I have been out of the hospital for a month and ten days. Switching back to reality was taken with a lot of stress and push back. Bad anxiety in math class. Bad anxiety in study hall. Bad anxiety. Don't look. It'd be quite the relief if you sliced your forearms, eh? Why aren't you doing your plethora of makeup homework? Why aren't you trying? What do you mean you can't get out of your bed? Do it! Try! You're failing them!

The problem with anxiety is it makes you feel incapable and scared, then proceeds to make you feel guilty about it. Accompanied with depression, you feel like you're slowly sinking into the Mariana Trench. I'm not a deep sea diver, and I never could swim all that well. The way I look at it, through this sort of existence, I'm earning myself a one-way ticket out of, and maybe back into, hell.