Well, I went to three camps in a row. I heard a whole lot of emotional crap and got moved. There was a specific night at the end of the last camp set aside for parents and teens. I got moved again... and told my mom everything. Why? God knows. I'm going to doctors and therapy now, so yay? What are they going to do, diagnose me? Send me home with a pretty little pill? Tell me things get better? No they don't. That's what everyone says. That's what they scream at you as they watch you get worse. That's what they say when you want to kill yourself and they know that you should because there is no real reason for you to keep doing life. I'm not saying it never gets better at all. I believe good things happen. I think there are good days when maybe you don't fantasize about your limp body dangling by a rope tied around your neck. Days like that are not impossible. They might be rare, but they exist. Sometimes. Anyways, I'm actually pretty scared to go to the doctor. What if there is something wrong with me? What if I do have some chronic mental illness? Or maybe I don't. Maybe I'm completely normal. I'm just your completely average, ordinary freak. Either way, it doesn't look good. The doctor isn't for 3 months though... fancy doctors take awhile to get into. So basically I'm stuck not knowing for another few months. I mean, I've waited three years, so what's a couple months?
I regretted telling my mom almost immediately. I knew I would, as telling her stuff never ends well. She went through my closet while I wasn't there and took my pocket knife. She thinks that I cut with a pocket knife.? This particular knife though, holds a lot of sentiment. My dad got it when he was a bit younger than I am, and he gave it to me. I guess to win some you gotta lose some. Even if she did actually find a knife, I have more than one. The funny thing is, she found out I was a cutter about a year and a half ago, and all she did was take my knife. Didn't ever mention it again. Didn't try to help or ask me why. I guess she hates the idea of anything being wrong with her kids. My brother has had a few issues down the road, and she has always been reluctant to admit that there is a problem. When it comes to fixing it though, she will do anything. You might be thinking, oh what a normal and motherly thing to do. It's not. See, my mom is a bit... narcissistic. And because of that she needs our family to be completely perfect in every way. We go to church every Sunday. We don't have problems. We all love each other (ha). We help people. We never need help, because hey, we don't have problems, right? Yeah, we are THAT family. And let me tell you, it sucks. She doesn't want to help me because I need help. She wants to help because I'm just an imperfection right now. I'm a blemish in the picture perfect life. I'm a problem, and we don't have those. Therapy can't fix that. Nothing can.
So, I'm actually pretty nervous about therapy. I'm not so great with the whole talking thing. Or healing. Or, lets face it, living. Yep. I just kinda suck at life in general. Does therapy fix sucking at life? Ha. For real though, anxiety makes everything I do a huge, intimidating task. Simple things. Eating. Sleeping. Even breathing. So going to a stranger to help me recover? It's driving me insane. But it's also what I need. I think. That's what I have been told.
Okay so I am the most awkwardest person ever when it comes to ending this type of thing. But I have a challenge: if you have ever been to counseling, therapy, or anything of that sort, share your experience in the comments. Or you can DM me. Thanks for reading... whatever this is.
