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Hi, my name is Juni
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 | COMMITTED - 1 |
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 4.8 with 5 vote(s)
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| Created: 2008-05-15 21:49:25 |
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“So, I admit. I have my problems. My 'issues'. My quirks. My peeves. My genuine and over-extended self-hatred that manages to stop me in the midst of my daily tasks and turns my heart to stone while I fight to hold back tears. But everyone has days like that, don't they?”
I looked up expectantly at the older, slightly gray-haired man. He wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste before jotting something down on his yellow-paged notepad.
I sighed knowing how the day would end since I had obviously messed up by trying to tell the truth. I should have learned from the previous attempts.
If I said something slightly 'insane' he would phone my parents and give them the details of our little session while I was riding the bus home. The words on his pad would come to life as his monotonous voice said the things I never wanted my parents to hear.
My mom stared at me when I walked in through the door, and then she ran to the bathroom to cry. Dad tried to be supportive, but he was too busy with work and my other siblings to give me all the extra attention that I craved.
Ana, my oldest sister, was a perfectionist. She always looked down on me, and when the sessions with Old Mr. Fuzzyhead started, she got worse. She ignored me entirely while burrowing her head in books on her side of our room.
Jake, our little brother - though I still have my doubts, had some interest in me and my problems. But only when I was freaking out and he had nothing else to do but watch. He's the artistic one; always doodling in margins of something or drawing pictures in pen and markers on his hand and arm. He occasionally cleared out his room to do a mural on the wall or the floor or the ceiling depending on his mood.
And then there was me, in the middle. I don't complain about being the middle child. Sure, I lack the talents that my siblings have and I'm not beautiful or anything. I just don't complain. I sit back and watch my sister get asked out by guys I would die for, only she's weird and she acts like she wouldn't give them the time of day if they begged. And, sure, it bugs me that my parents are always there for Jake if he has something semi-important to do but never remember my big days. Those things sometimes bug me, but I don't complain... out loud.
Or to Old Mr. Fuzzyhead because he'd rat on me. AGAIN.
“Juniper,” Dr. Lyon said in an exasperated voice.
I stared back at him, trying to rid my face of all emotion.
“Can you guess how long I was calling you?” he sighed, wrinkles folding his spotted, leathered skin.
“Sorry,” I apologized before focusing on the clock.
Ten minutes.
He shook his head once he realized where my attention was diverted to.
“Your parents spend a lot of money for you to be here. Maybe you should attempt to get better.”
“How can I get better if I don't know what's wrong?” I sighed again.
“Juniper-”
“Juni,” I interrupted with a grimace on my face. Juniper was disgusting and fugly.
“Ms. Montane.”
“Edison.” His nose wrinkled, but he stayed silent.
We stared at each other, trying to psych our opponent out. It didn't work.
He spoke first.
“You have depression,” he announced leaning forward while pushing his glasses back. Well, not really 'announced' since I already knew that. “You have talked about wanting to kill yourself. You lock yourself in your bedroom and cry for hours. Your parents believe you are harming yourself.”
I leaned forward to speak, “You think I have depression. Last month I was bipolar. Next month I'll be schizophrenic. Face it, Doc, none of that stuff matters currently. And, as for all that depressing crap, no proof.”
I lifted my sleeves up to show my unblemished arms. Then pulling my socks down, I showed off my only permanent scar - a long, diagonal cut that ran around my shin down to my ankle.
“I've had this for months.. And it was an A-C-C-I-D-E-N-T,” I reminded him.
He shook his head again before scribbling in his notepad. Not looking up he asked, “Are you still seeing Dr. Guber?”
I groaned at the familiar name. Dr. Guber. The man responisble for sending me to Dr. Lyon. The man who prescribed me my antidepressants and misdiagnoses me on a monthly basis. The man who reminds me of Santa Claus, with tiny pills for presents.
I'd rather get coal.
“Every other month.”
“Is he updating your medication?”
“I've been on Zoloft for the past three months. Does it honestly matter?”
He looked up before shaking his head, then glanced at the pad on his lap. It was full of illegible scribbles.
“Do you know the risks of you not taking your medication?”
The tiny alarm on my wristwatch signaling the end of our session beeped rapidly. I stood, grabbed my coat and walked out. Not answering his question or even acknowledging it.
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YAY! My first story. I don't like long chappies sorry. Please rate and leave [mean] comments! |
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