『MIKEWASHERE』 → Mike is a FAGGOT. (bloodnblack) wrote,
『MIKEWASHERE』 → Mike is a FAGGOT.
bloodnblack

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Peninsula Outpatient Centers, a division of Parkwest Medical.

Peninsula was such an out of body experience. Just being near the place...depressed me. It made me feel week and stressed and suicidal, like there was a pain that radiated from the buildings, and the second I was near, I was infected.

The lighthouse was smaller than I thought it would be. Everything seemed so...fake, up close. The river was fake, the lighthouse was fake, everything, it was all so very phony and plastic. Mom was clutching me and telling me everything was going to be okay, and I was hating her touch too much, and the taste of my bad sandwhich I managed to force down my throat burned my tongue. The first thing I saw was a woman in a wheel chair being carted by her husband, her chatting aimlessly and him looking happy. It was the opposite for me. Patients and visitors smoke cigarettes solemnly in a rotting wooden gazebo, and we head down the broken stone path after my mom spends three minutes pulling herself out of the car. I pass a thin man on my way to the Customer Building, and he stares at me, listlessly, the same way I know I look, and I can see the second our eyes meet we're both patients. (Or I am soon to be.)

We enter the Customer Building, and I sit silently in a squishy seat that was designed to shape with your back, reading the Everythingwillbeokaysoon posters on the walls with distaste. A beautiful, angry, violent song was stuck in my head, Saku by Dir En Grey, and I would have hummed it quietly had not all the strength within me faded. A postcard sized advertisement I'd pulled from the front desk while my mother wasn't looking curls in my hands, the words INCREASE YOUR WELLNESS tearing steadily in my boredom. My parents return to me with a pink clipboard full of paperwork. I have say in a few questions, and dad passes me the clipboard, but when I look at them the weakness gets heavier. The questions are so general I want to die trying to answer them, so in each space, I put I WANT TO GET BETTER. Dad respects my privacy and doesn't look at my answers. Mom finishes the paperwork and turns it in.

A playlist of beautiful, angry songs is running through my head on fast-forward and a headache is setting in somewhere underneath my skull. My voice drops to nothing. I am nothing. Like the man I had seen outside, I am nothing, and I wonder if my pupils dilated like his did, because my dad stared at my eyes a lot. (Or maybe he was just an addict and I was looking depressed.)

Eventually, a woman comes out with a clipboard and shakes my parent's hands, assuring them everythingwillbeokay and thesearejustroutinequestions. She doesn't touch me, nor address me, I do not speak, I am silent, the insane, resolute silence, and I glut in this feeling. She takes me into her small office, and I sit in a chair in the corner, a squishy blue one that's therapudic and matches the curves of someone who actually slept at night.

She takes her clipboard and asks me why my parents brought me here. I tell her because I've tried to kill myself. The words I dry, and I sound like I'm stoned, and I don't really care. She asks me when the last time I tried to kill myself was. I tell her two weeks ago. She asks me how. I tell her drain cleaner. She asks me about an Emergency Room. There was a bit of life in my voice when I replied. "There was none." She says I should have died. I tell her that was the idea. She asks what my parents did. I tell her nothing, they didn't know. She doesn't believe me. I am laughing inside. She asks me about drugs and I say lie and I say no to everything. She asks me about alcohol and I tell the truth. She asks me if I've been abused. I nod. She asks how so. I say every way. She asks me sexually. I nod. She asks who did it. I tell her I Don't Know. She asks me physically. I nod. She asks me who. I tell her my parents and some kids. She asks me some more general questions, How Long Have I Been Hurting Myself and things like that. I alternate between lies and truth. We are done too soon. I feel cheated.

She makes me go back a new waiting room outside of her office. My parents go in. There is a fan by the door that drones out their voices, but occasionally I hear 'criteria' and 'she'. In the room with me is a squarish woman who is picking at her thumbnail with a switchblade. I find myself tempted to ask if I can borrow it. I want to cut. I want to cut a lot. A twitchy, thin man is there, and occasionally he would look at me, look at me squirm and squirm himself, causing a circly awkward to reverberate through the thick room. A beautiful, thin blonde girl who looked as though she was in high school, though probably older, sat a few seats away from me in the squishy therapudic chairs, and she helps a woman use a cell phone. A boy who looked maybe seven or eight with his mother. A woman with a broken nose and a bellyshirt stained with vomit and reeking of crack. A thick man who stared at me. I am in the company of those just like myself, and I can't tell if I'm comfortable or not. Doctors move in and out of the room, and the patients strip down to just me and the pretty blonde as I wait for my parents to finish. CRITERIA rings loud over the fan. I know what is going to happen. It burns.

Eventually my mother and father walk out of the room, and the happiness seems grossly forced. They tell me it's time to leave and I follow them wordlessly. They say nothing about their discussion, dad suggests taking a walk and maybe sitting by the artificial lake filled with geese and the complimentary bacteria. I tell them I want to leave. They comply.

We end up at a Hardee's not too far away, and I am sipping a milkshake, waiting for them to talk. I take a pencil and draw on one of the comment cards. A slightly feminine face with blonde, realistic hair falling over the left eye and some sort of fire in the visible one. It's a male, but no one would know. Deidara's too beautiful to not draw. I finish the comment card and the lady cleaning the floors tells me it's amazing. I give it to her without words. They are unneccessary. I do not speak. Eventually I manage to speak a quiet What Are They Going To Do to my mom and dad, and the cheer of eating low quality food drops to nothing. I had been expecting something of that like, but it was sad. They make me sad in general.

The conversation begins quickly, and they don't hesitate to launch into the story of why I'm so fucked up and what HellomynameisMona said would help me. I didn't listen except for key words. The first one I keyed in on was outpatients, which apparently was my reccomendation. I felt better. I don't want to go at all, but at least I won't be locked away. I'll still have my parents to make my life not worth living at home, but...at least I won't be locked away in a living (dying, maybe?) hell. I'll be starting my program either the 27th or the 29th, and it will last six to eight weeks. During school, I will miss half the day, which will put me very much behind, and will probably cause alterations in my schedule. I tune out somewhere after this. I'm halfway through my second chocolate milkshake when another words catches my interesting. Family counceling. I feel sick. I feel sick and angry and nauseated and violent. I managed to say something. It comes out fast and sharp. No. I know I can't handle family counceling. I can't handle myself, they can't handle me, and I know that if they tried to make me normal that way, it wouldn't work. An arguement begins. She begins to yell. I slink back into silence. The woman who said my art was beautiful looks scared. I don't know if she's scared for me, or scared of my mom, or scared all of her customers would leave. I was scared. I didn't want her to hit me in somewhere so public. But I knew she would if I said the wrong thing. The arguement fades away and I am relieved when it eventually does. Dad is relieved. The woman is relieved. Mom still has some insanity in her eyes. That look is always there.

We finish our food and leave. I am glad to be in my dad's car, away from my mom. The food makes me feel huge. It always does. But even more so now. The headache from hours prior is coming back. We drive home, and I put my headphones on, reclusing into the shrieks of the Beautiful Angry Music that makes me feel so much better. We get home too quickly. The school day is just ending and I get on the computer and drown myself in RP. It takes an hour before mom is screaming again. I take it. It's better that way. A little later on I find myself sneaking onto the computer. Mom catches me after thirty minutes and sends me upstairs. I go back up. Something hits me about fifteen minutes later. I take a sharpie and write NEVER KNOWS BEST on my wrists. I want to slit them. I don't know why. I don't know why. But I want to cut them so badly I can't think. I slink back to the computer and talk to Lamb for a little while. I have a Panic Attack. She helps me through it. I love her so much. I stop shaking after a while. I become Me. I become Me and I am not nursing any wounds. It's refreshing. We RP until we finish a log and I fall asleep somewhere between then and now.

That was yesterday.
Today was worse.
Tags: dad, lamb, mom, panic attacks, peninsula, rping, suicide
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  • 15 comments

  • Ohgahd.

    I've skipped 3rd period three times this week. Meaning I fucking have to start going next week and pretty much continually. I just can't deal with…

  • God exists?

    Okay. To Hannah all who knew about the chaos that ensued last night, I love you very much, and I have really good news.…

  • The LawlMawl post.

    I have pictures. If you are interested. (They were taken in the apple store at the mall.) ER AND. WE ALL LOOK AWFUL, JUST FYI. WE SPRAYED SHIT IN…