I've Got It Under Control

twenty four

Jules

I skipped snack time completely. Nate came back and tried to convince me to give it ago. I had a deep-rooted fear that everyone would hate me due to losing my cool on Sage. Honestly, she deserved, spiteful bitch.

I wondered about my mum and dad, do you think they really cared that their daughter is trapped in a crazy ward? It hurt me to know that she hasn't even been bothered to give me some valuables, or wrote to me or just even inform someone, anyone that she was thinking about me. I listen to the girls' conversations about what their parents had gifted them this week, and how they have weekend leave. I can't even get a bloody reply back from mine. I feel uncomfortable in these clothes, they aren't mine, I want my own things, my own property, the comfort of the feeling of being grounded; I can't get that reassurance in clothes that aren't even mine. I look at the clock, it's 11:05, only 10 more minutes until I reach my dreaded fate, I'll be forced to go to therapy, they have probably had enough of my arrogant bullshit for one day.

I sauntered over to the window seat, I find myself here a lot of the time, it's relaxing, watching the cars drive by as people move on with their lives. I wish I could do that. I miss the days where I wouldn't worry over the things that I ate, I miss worrying over the abundance of choices about what to eat, rather than faking that I had consumed food. I miss the days where I would enjoy eating bread and ice cream, without not even a second thought or temptation to look at how many calories I would be ingesting. I miss the days where I would go on walks with my friends, not obsessed with how many calories I would be burning, but now I lay scrunching my empty stomach praying the stabbing feeling and fatigue will stop. I miss the days where my eyes would light up, my cheeks turning a blush pink when I was complimented or excited, now I have to force my tired face to even create a small smile. I hate the feeling that I won't be beautiful or fit the beauty standards if I don't starve myself.

I really miss it, believe me, I do.

I peered down at my skin, unraveling the bandages and letting them fall to the floor. They used to be clean canvases, but it had now turned into strokes of deep depression and hatred. My arms and legs used to be soft and smooth, but they were now littered with ridges and bumps as I used my finger to stroke my arms. Imagining the blood and the tingling pain as if I was hurting myself again. I want to stop, I don't want to hurt myself anymore, but the voice in the back of my head is shouting at me, telling me it's my only way of remaining in control. I'm disgusted to even look at myself in the mirror.

In the distance a faint knock vibrated my door, I don't turn my head, instead, I look up at the clock, 11:10, here we go. I know who it is that now stands guard in my room, his hands in his pockets, a small smile reaching his face. His tall structure defeating the purpose of his kind soul. Tom, "ready Jules?"

"Mmhm" I nodded.

"Great. Shall we make our way over then?" I took a deep breath in, reminding myself to remain calm but the anxiety is growing and it's hard to remain my composure. From a very young age, I was taught that my feelings weren't valid, that no one cared and that I needed to keep them to myself. That I would be a burden to everyone if I ever announced my feelings. So now they are all pent up, bubbling inside of me, and I just know what a shit show that it is going to be when they escape.

I felt worn out and used up as we made our way to the medical centre where the therapy rooms are; I just felt as though I've been overstretched and there isn't enough of what's left to go around, my bones and my whole body aching endlessly.

I feel empty.

We reached the door, it was shut but has 'Therapy Room 1', written on a plaque. Tom buzzed the door open, walking in and putting his back up against the door while holding it open. I hesitantly walked in, it had a desk and two chairs on one end, and then a sofa on the other side of the desk. Tom spoke for the first time since we had left my room, "take a seat on the sofa and a psychiatrist will be in, in a minute."