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Almost Cured

By @Amaj101


Zara Chase

I never wanted this. I was stuck with it. And I can’t get away from it.

My parents and I are waiting in the waiting room of the psychiatrist’s office. You haven’t been eating, my mother says. I haven’t been sleeping, I notice. You’re not so energetic anymore. You’ve changed quite a bit, my father says. So we’re here. First we went to the hospital. They said to come here. I don’t want to be here. It makes me feel like something’s wrong with me, more than I realize. Just being here sends many messages. You’re a mistake. You shouldn’t be alive. You don’t realize how small you are. I try to wipe the messages from my head, but they repeat and repeat, like my devil within is fighting for a way out, and the only way to do that is to hurt me. To hurt me and push me and crush me until I just break. “Zara Chase!” the nurse called. I stand up, walking to the psychiatrist, leaving my parents, and maybe the world, behind me.

I being led into a room. It looks too cheery for someone like me. Colors, colors everywhere bring the room into view as if it wasn’t already noticeable as if it needed more attention as if it didn’t get what it wanted, it would swallow the world whole. I sit in the colorful chair next to a desk. On the desk is a sheet of paper. Does your child suffer from a mental illness? Help is available. Lies. Lies. They can’t help someone like me and after this appointment they’ll know it. “Zara?” I look up to see a blonde, green-eyed woman staring down at me. “Yes?” I say.

“I’m Dr. Morrison. I’m here to help talk about what’s going on. I want to see if I can be able to help you and get you back to who you used to be.” I nod, already wary of this woman in front of me. “Age?” she asks. I stand there. Shouldn’t she already know this? “Date of birth?” I don’t answer. I’m confused. Isn’t there a form that was already filled out, giving her that information? “Zara?”

“Shouldn’t you already know this?”

“Yes, but I’m asking you.” she said, eyes searching. ” I’m sixteen, born May 1st.” I say slowly. She nods and writes it down on a clipboard in her lap. “When did you stop eating?”

When my life ended.

“About two months ago. I started eating less and less.” She looks up from her clipboard. “Zara, two months? No wonder you’re that thin.” she almost whispers. I scowl. Isn’t this for you to help me, not criticize me? She looks very flustered, and carries on. “What about your sleeping habits what’s that like?”

I can’t sleep. My thought keep me from sleeping, from dying.

“I can’t sleep. When I do, its more of a restless sleep than me not being able to stay asleep.”

We go on like this for what seems like hours. Finally, its four in the afternoon, and we’ve reached a conclusion, she says. “I don’t ever like to give this diagnosis, but you have severe depression. You need to take some anti-depressants for now until we find another way.” she whispers sadly. My heart drops. I don’t know why. I expected this. But it’s real now.

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