The Ballerina & The Devil

Sixty Eight. If You Can't Love Yourself

A/N: The song in the mediabox is Love Yourself by my bae Justin Bieber.

Before you start this chapter here is a lovely poem by @Ava_Tinnel458

The ballerina and the Devil
Both hiding behind masks
To their true selves
To hide their ugly pasts

With him her facade falls
Off comes her mask
And crumbling goes his walls
Their trust forming fast

Trust becomes friendship
And secrets are revealed
The 'bad boy' sees
How the 'perfect girl' really feels

The ballerina and the devil
Both trapped in their own hells
Both feeling so alone
After hiding it so well

And here is ANOTHER beautiful poem by am_SHANIQUE_tho

I'm tired of looking in the mirror
And disliking what I see
I wish I could just be happy
knowing that I'm me
I'm tired of seeing all my faults
And thinking that's all I can be,
Because it seems, perfection has
Completely eluded me
Nobody's perfect...sure...
That's what they all say
Whilst perfection is thrown in our faces
Every night and everyday.
I just want to be comfortable,
With who I am in every possible way,
To wake up knowing that I'm not perfect,
And that's perfectly okay...
So there, I said it,
Now do you think there's something wrong with me?
When all I crave is to be the epitome of beauty... 

Enjoy the chapter :)

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It was a total of three weeks and two days exactly before it was determined I was "well enough" to leave the mental ward.

The good news was that after spending every second of every day begging to anybody who would listen I was not going to be sent off to a treatment facility.

The bad news (which, in my opinion, outweighed the good news by a lot) was that I had to attend Intensive Outpatient Treatment for three days out of each week and spend between two to four hours there with each visit. I also had to attend family therapy once a week as well as nutritional counseling every Saturday to bring "balance" back to my eating.

To make matters worse the surveillance I was under while in the hospital didn't halt when I left. If anything it got tighter. Not only was I not allowed to use the bathroom alone, I had to leave my bedroom door open for all hours of the day. I was to monitored by Dr. Gray on an almost daily basis which would include regular weigh-ins, blood tests, and other health screenings

So basically, I got out of going to rehabilitation, but was still expected to partake in the worst parts of the entire experience.

I absolutely hated my life.

I probably would have acted out more at the fact that I wasn't getting my way in the slightest, but threats from both my parents and my doctor about sending me back to a residential center was the one and only reason I sat on the sofa across from my therapist in a sulky, but silent manner.

My therapist, Nelly, was a young African American woman. So young, in fact, that I had to assume she was in her mid-twenties and fresh out of college. She seemed nice enough, but her being a therapist was enough for me to detest her immediately.

I didn't have the best experiences with therapists, and had come to the conclusion that a good majority of them were condescending people who made it a point to never offer up any actual help for the problems brought to them.