teen spirit|| peter parker [1]

eleven

The mascara stained tears fall like tsunamis ripping through my cheeks, silent sobs choking me into inaudibility, black splashing against my sweater as the teardrops fall from my face.

"Have you been taking your meds?"

Sometimes I wish that Dad wasn't so concerned with my mental state and well-being; I hate therapy, and he knows it. But he also 'knows' that it will 'help' me 'work through my trauma and past.' I'd rather repress it— easier than confronting it. Pretend it doesn't exist.

"Bonnie, have you been taking your medication?" Dr Greene asks for the second time, growing frustrated with my silence through our session. She's the one that usually does the talking— I sit in silence wishing I was anywhere but her cold and impersonal office. The air stings my nose with the scent of hand sanitiser and bleach. The least she could do is light a lavender scented candle or burn some calming incense, honestly, this room is a panic attack waiting to happen. The black leather chairs seem too professional and subliminally intrusive. Feels like I'm being interrogated.

"Yes," I wipe my eyes, "I put them in a Pez dispenser. Makes them more fun to take. And anyway, I don't wanna be the girl walking around with pill bottles in her bag. It's like I'm asking to be made fun of."

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your struggles, Bonnie," she hums in her condescending tone. "You should be proud that you made it through."

Yes, nothing says 'survivor' like anti-anxiety meds and night terrors.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Your mother, perhaps? Have you been having any more nightmares?"

"No."

All the time.

I contemplate.

"Do you ever get that sad nostalgia for things that you never experienced or that have never existed? It's like, it's always that. Like I'm grieving things that never even lived. Maybe I'm just sad that everyone has moved out or whatever, I don't know. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid, it's perfectly valid. But I think the root of the problem is your fear of abandonment. It started with your dad not being involved until the death of your mother, and now your new family is leaving. You're terrified of being alone, yet you isolate yourself from others so that you never have to feel it. You're contradicting yourself. You know, things aren't scary if you take the power away from it. So, you're scared of being alone— you go for a walk by yourself or turn your phone off for a day so no one can contact you. Do this for, say thirty days— that's how long it takes to build a habit, you'll be surprised."

'If anything, you should fear fear itself, Bonnie. It is the root of all evil.' Wanda's words stick in my head.

"Yeah, right." I scoff.

"You can't heal unless you help yourself."

I don't say anything.

She sighs while scribbling down on her clipboard. "I'm prescribing you fluoxetine for the depression. 20mg dose each day. Here," she hands me a slip of paper with barely legible writing scrawled on the dotted line, "take this to the pharmacy... Or we can arrange for someone else to collect them or deliver them to your address if you'd prefer."

I roll my eyes and reluctantly take the paper from her.

"It will get easier, Bonnie. Healing takes time."

But it's already been a lifetime, it feels.

After picking up my medication, I head into the parking lot where Happy is waiting. I fiddle with the orange bottle in my hand, rattling around the white and green pills. It sounds menacing and taunting, 'you're sick! Pathetic, weak girl. Fragile. Fucked up
brain; you'll never get better.'