*INHALE*

 

I sit in plush chairs and anxiety. 

The room is filled with inspirational posters and I can smell the last persons cigarette cough. 

I do not want to be here. 

Charts filled with different faces of what emotions are supposed to look like and after all these years I still cannot find “numb”

I do not want to be here.

You shuffle papers from the previous problem and stick them in a folder and store it away for entertainment later. I feel we are all just pathetic laughs to you saved for when you feel like us. 

Whats wrong with us?

I do not want to be here. 

I don’t want to feel that uneasy, heavy feeling of wonder as you write down everything I say as I throw my life up to you. The after taste will always be worse because I don’t know if I feel better or just lighter in emotions. I don’t know if that’s better. 

Maybe I need to be here. 

I’m tired of holding my breath at the question “are you okay?” Because I have always been the savior neglecting the person who needs to be saved.

But I refuse to believe that I am a problem that needs to be fixed. 

I refuse to believe that I am a “problem” rather than a question everyone demands the answer to. 

“Why do you save other people but refuse to let other do the same?” 

My issues are irrelevant. I don’t need them as much as they need me. 

“That’s not healthy”

Nothing is considered healthy anymore. 

“Why do you feel you don’t need them?”

My depression is irrelevant to them. And it’s irrelevant to me.

“Lemme ask you something.” 

*eye roll*

“Are you okay?”

I’m afraid to tell you how I feel because that’s another diagnosis that will get tucked away under bed sheets and empty pill bottles. 

“You should tell me” 

I should. But I don’t want to. Depression and anxiety have been the only thing interesting about me, if I loose this, I loose myself. And what’s a girl if she’s not broken? 

“Stop holding your breath. Just breathe. Just release.”

You make me want to believe that I can be okay. 

“Are you okay?”

No....no I am not. 

 

*EXHALE*