Prozac Nation: My Own Words, chapter 1
You look at me expectantly, waiting for me to talk. I simply continue staring at my shoes, waiting for you to finally realize how stupidly insane I am and that trying to talk to me is a complete waste of your time. You will never get me to talk, not in a million years. I'll die and you'll never know about the storm in my head, the chaos of my thoughts. I am a lost soul, destined to breathe, eat and sleep for endless hours at a time. And you just sit there, pretending interest, as if you really want to hear what I have to say. Fat chance. I sink back into the couch, covering my eyes with a fringe of hair.
"Remember, we are here to help you," you say, shifting slightly in your leather chair, which groans loudly. I feel slightly annoyed by this comment, but I don't budge. You really think I care, don't you? Well, I don't. I don't want to be here. And I have a slight suspicion that you are desperately waiting to get out of here so you can go to TGI Friday's or Ruby Tuesday with your friends. I clutch at my stomach as it gives a tremendous growl. Apparently, I'm hungrier than you.
"Are you feeling alright, Kim?" you ask in a concerned tone. I glare at you, angry of the fact that you called me by my name. But I let it pass. I feel too tired to speak. But if I did want to speak, I'd tell you to go to hell. You are not "worthy" to call me by my name. Few people have that privilege. And you are not one of those people. And you will never be.
My stomach gives another deadly growl. I try to conceal the sound, but it's impossible. You sigh. I look up. You are putting away your notebook and closing your desk. "I believe we're done here," you say. "Come back tomorrow, alright?"
I nod slightly, but I believe that there might be a possibility that I may not be here tomorrow.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting in the couch in my living room, channel surfing, hanging onto the remote control as if my life depended on it. I yawn. The doorbell rings and I stand up and walk lazily towards the door. "Hurry up, Kim, I know you're there." I know this voice a little too well. I grin as I open the door. A tall guy with black hair comes in. This is Mitch. He's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I guess we met at preschool or something. He's always been there for me: a shoulder to cry on, April Fool's Day companion, throw eggs at passing kids, eat chocolate till we explode, laugh for hours and then fight for the bathroom, eat apples from the orchard, write letters when we go on vacations, stay up on school nights watching horror movies, go skating in the park. We are inseparable.
"Hey," I say. I don't say much, and I don't mention my little meeting with the therapist. I guess he'd want to know, but he'd freak at the same time.
"Where were you? I came earlier, but your aunt said you were 'out'." He searches his pockets and takes out a packet of bubble gum. I grab a piece before he does.
"Ehh," I say. "I was around." I hope I sound indifferent. Mitch stares at me. He clearly knows I'm hiding something. Like the time I broke his glasses and hid them away. I said they had dropped from my backpack somewhere, but he didn't buy the joke. Okay, I was at the mall. My voice breaks a little. Jason keeps staring. "Dammit, Mitch, I was at a therapist's office." I go back to the couch. Mitch slumps beside me and grabs the remote. History Channel, Discovery Channel, blah, blah, blah. Skid to a halt in Cartoon Network.
"You're not insane," he says. "In fact, you're the sanest person I know. You're just, I dunno, different." Easy for you to say.
Mitch sees the troubled expression in my face. "Kim, we've been friends for, like, ever. I know you inside out. You're just feeling a little depressed, that's all. You're NOT a psychotic freak like some people say you are. You're just coping with emotions. You've told me all this. Calm down, you're thinking too much." He strokes my hair a bit as I close my eyes for a minute, thinking of what Mitch just said. I am thinking too much. Heck, I'm thinking that I'm thinking too much. Ugh, what a headache.
"Maybe you're right," I say wiping my forehead with my sleeve. Though I had talked with Mitch a lot about how I felt, I knew he would never, not in a million years, truly understand how I feel. After my dad left, after mom died, after I had to come to live with my aunt, I felt withdrawn. I felt as if I would never be normal again. And my aunt was sure that there was something wrong with me. And I've been on the pill for two years, now. So what do they want? I already stopped smoking crack. Maybe they want me to be completely normal. And if that's what they want, then they're asking for a miracle. I sigh and grab the phone. "Pizza again?" I ask. Mitch nods.
I order the pepperoni/extra cheese/mushroom pizza and I rest my head on Mitch's shoulder. We sit silently, watching cartoons, laughing occasionally. Mitch rests his own head against mine; black hair entangled with blonde. I closed my eyes, feeling his steady in-and-out breathing. I thought of how the disappearance of a loved one could leave an empty hole in your life. I'm just seventeen, I don't know if I can live any longer. When mom died, when I was only twelve, I swore I would never make it past eighteen. And that's when I started drugs. And that's when I felt in despair.
"Mitch, will I ever feel normal again?" I didn't know where did that question come from, but deep down I knew I had always wanted to know that. Mitch gives me a half surprised, half vexed look.
"Look, Kim, sometimes things take time. Other times, things just go away and you never think of them anymore. But sometimes, they're like burdens; you just can't let go, no matter how hard you try. But always keep in mind that you can never let it kill you. No matter what, always look on the bright side. And no matter what, remember I'm always here for you."
"Remember, we are here to help you," you say, shifting slightly in your leather chair, which groans loudly. I feel slightly annoyed by this comment, but I don't budge. You really think I care, don't you? Well, I don't. I don't want to be here. And I have a slight suspicion that you are desperately waiting to get out of here so you can go to TGI Friday's or Ruby Tuesday with your friends. I clutch at my stomach as it gives a tremendous growl. Apparently, I'm hungrier than you.
"Are you feeling alright, Kim?" you ask in a concerned tone. I glare at you, angry of the fact that you called me by my name. But I let it pass. I feel too tired to speak. But if I did want to speak, I'd tell you to go to hell. You are not "worthy" to call me by my name. Few people have that privilege. And you are not one of those people. And you will never be.
My stomach gives another deadly growl. I try to conceal the sound, but it's impossible. You sigh. I look up. You are putting away your notebook and closing your desk. "I believe we're done here," you say. "Come back tomorrow, alright?"
I nod slightly, but I believe that there might be a possibility that I may not be here tomorrow.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting in the couch in my living room, channel surfing, hanging onto the remote control as if my life depended on it. I yawn. The doorbell rings and I stand up and walk lazily towards the door. "Hurry up, Kim, I know you're there." I know this voice a little too well. I grin as I open the door. A tall guy with black hair comes in. This is Mitch. He's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I guess we met at preschool or something. He's always been there for me: a shoulder to cry on, April Fool's Day companion, throw eggs at passing kids, eat chocolate till we explode, laugh for hours and then fight for the bathroom, eat apples from the orchard, write letters when we go on vacations, stay up on school nights watching horror movies, go skating in the park. We are inseparable.
"Hey," I say. I don't say much, and I don't mention my little meeting with the therapist. I guess he'd want to know, but he'd freak at the same time.
"Where were you? I came earlier, but your aunt said you were 'out'." He searches his pockets and takes out a packet of bubble gum. I grab a piece before he does.
"Ehh," I say. "I was around." I hope I sound indifferent. Mitch stares at me. He clearly knows I'm hiding something. Like the time I broke his glasses and hid them away. I said they had dropped from my backpack somewhere, but he didn't buy the joke. Okay, I was at the mall. My voice breaks a little. Jason keeps staring. "Dammit, Mitch, I was at a therapist's office." I go back to the couch. Mitch slumps beside me and grabs the remote. History Channel, Discovery Channel, blah, blah, blah. Skid to a halt in Cartoon Network.
"You're not insane," he says. "In fact, you're the sanest person I know. You're just, I dunno, different." Easy for you to say.
Mitch sees the troubled expression in my face. "Kim, we've been friends for, like, ever. I know you inside out. You're just feeling a little depressed, that's all. You're NOT a psychotic freak like some people say you are. You're just coping with emotions. You've told me all this. Calm down, you're thinking too much." He strokes my hair a bit as I close my eyes for a minute, thinking of what Mitch just said. I am thinking too much. Heck, I'm thinking that I'm thinking too much. Ugh, what a headache.
"Maybe you're right," I say wiping my forehead with my sleeve. Though I had talked with Mitch a lot about how I felt, I knew he would never, not in a million years, truly understand how I feel. After my dad left, after mom died, after I had to come to live with my aunt, I felt withdrawn. I felt as if I would never be normal again. And my aunt was sure that there was something wrong with me. And I've been on the pill for two years, now. So what do they want? I already stopped smoking crack. Maybe they want me to be completely normal. And if that's what they want, then they're asking for a miracle. I sigh and grab the phone. "Pizza again?" I ask. Mitch nods.
I order the pepperoni/extra cheese/mushroom pizza and I rest my head on Mitch's shoulder. We sit silently, watching cartoons, laughing occasionally. Mitch rests his own head against mine; black hair entangled with blonde. I closed my eyes, feeling his steady in-and-out breathing. I thought of how the disappearance of a loved one could leave an empty hole in your life. I'm just seventeen, I don't know if I can live any longer. When mom died, when I was only twelve, I swore I would never make it past eighteen. And that's when I started drugs. And that's when I felt in despair.
"Mitch, will I ever feel normal again?" I didn't know where did that question come from, but deep down I knew I had always wanted to know that. Mitch gives me a half surprised, half vexed look.
"Look, Kim, sometimes things take time. Other times, things just go away and you never think of them anymore. But sometimes, they're like burdens; you just can't let go, no matter how hard you try. But always keep in mind that you can never let it kill you. No matter what, always look on the bright side. And no matter what, remember I'm always here for you."
Page 1/5 | Next
