Am I the Monster You Say I Am?

Am I actually the monster that you say I am? Am I destined to always be the villain in the story? Or is it just in yours?

Are they one in the same?

I go through my mind time and again and tell myself to change. Tell myself I need to be better. I need to get better. Now more than ever people are coming forward with their stories of mental health and their struggles.

You warn me to not use that as an excuse. That on some level we all suffer with it and there are some very real cases that need attention. You tell me to be careful what I say so that I do not take the time and help that professionals can dedicate to those that may need it more.

Do not take everything as some sort of mental health struggle.

Do not use it as an excuse to give in to laziness.

I would take that to mean not talk about it. I did not think I showed any visible signs. Therefore any mention would be looked at as cause for complaint. I held my tongue.

One time I told you I thought I would need more professional help than just one person sitting with me for one hour a week thinking that they were actually doing some good and getting a decent paycheck on the side. We found help, but not a long-term solution.

And what did you do?

Look at me as if I had lost my mind. You went off on me saying that I was just not willing to try to be better. You told me that essentially this whole excuse of addiction was more like "addiction" with quotes.

You walked out the door and I cried into my pillow. I went outside of the house and just drove. I almost got lost that night in the rain. Twice my wheels try to skid into the concrete slabs that separated the freeway. I could have just allowed it to happen and drift. The thought crossed my mind for a millisecond. That would have been the end.

But I did not want that to be the ending of my story. I want to live so that I might be able to change.

Now I am here. I almost want to say I told you so but would you listen? I feel as though you would think me more disrespectful. In a way, you would be right. I want to let you know that I knew I was more messed up than you claimed I am. I wanted to rub it in your face when the doctor said that this was a condition that needed more than just me on my own. I almost wanted to cheer at the defeated look that crossed your face when you realized that this was more than just me wanting to be rebellious. Me not being spiritual enough for you. Me leaving everything I was taught as a child by choice.

None of this was my choice. How I got here was. Now that I am older, wiser, and healthier I wanted to make myself better. By then the poison had gone through my body.

The damage was done and there was no going back. But now I have a whole new choice. One that I have been working on for years. People surrounding me have told me they are proud of the growth. That they love seeing what has been happening.

Why then am I only a monster to you and probably a select few others from a past where I was? You have been here the whole time unlike them. How are you not seeing it?

Are my friends wrong? Am I imagining a reality where they are just saying that? Are they just humoring me if this is real?

What is real anymore?

I. . . don't know. . .

I stare at my shaking hands. They were not staying still as I was scratching at the skin of my palms. I had a ponytail on right wrist that I kept pulling further and further away to snap. I had heard in a movie once that it was a good distraction for the hands and it was softer than a rubber band so I would not feel the intense sting when it made impact as I let go.

It has been almost three years since I had last tried to do any real damage to my skin.

I heard the soft thud of a notebook on the desk opposite me. The noise was resounding in the room other than my heavy breathing. I tell myself to not look up. It will encourage the woman to talk and I just did not want to address anything.

"You know you are a very good writer," she said to break the silence after a good five minutes of me staring at my hands as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"No I am not," I say throwing my head back and looking to the ceiling.

This was not a rue gesture. I just have this thing about eye contact. Too much of it and it is like people can see what is going on in your soul. They may not even get it right or not give a damn, but it makes the contact no less weird.

I did not let anyone in that had not earned it. She did not have my trust yet. I have to scoff at that thought aloud. Five months. Five months of my life and my written thought and she still did not have my trust to be able to look at of my own volition, unprovoked.

"Why do you say that?" she asks with seeming interest in her voice.

Now I look to her, "because I know how I write. I've known for about twenty years."

"So you literally wrote coming out of the womb," she answered with a smirk. "I will admit that is pretty impressive."

I feel the urge to smile. Instead I roll my eyes.

"Of course not," I say looking to the window.

I hear the rustle of fabric and the clink of her heels as she rounds the desk to sit on the ledge and feel her stare lingering on my form. Out of instinct I shrink and pull the coat I have on tighter around me. It is 97 degrees and I am wearing a coat unironically.

It was always a coping mechanism. Just like my hair. I keep it straight and framing my face so that if I get embarrassed I can just hide my eyes behind my hair in the child-like belief that I become invisible.

"You write like I feel like you would talk if you were free."

"I stumble and stutter over my words all the time so I do not see that as a compliment," I say turning my head to the window yet again.

"Is it because you fear to say the wrong thing?" she asks me almost too knowingly.

"At this point I do not think I will ever say the right thing."

I was not lying. I did feel at this point that with certain people in my life I just could never say or do anything to redeem an image now broken.

"You did not answer my question."

They say the silence is deafening. Maybe there is a part of me that wants to be angry that she would assume my answer because of it. What makes me more angry is that she would assume the truth.

For that reason I just let the silence take over.

She nods her head and moves behind the desk. "You had not written anything this substantial in all the time we have been meeting. What now has changed?"

"You are the therapist. I thought you were supposed to tell me."

"That is not how therapy works."

"Oh so you doing the majority of the talking since day one, judging every gesture, look, and occasional word that comes out of my mouth writing down your observations and not one thought as to how to help me. That's right you are here to help me on finding that out on my own. Or oh wait was I supposed to have life figured out by now?"

"Do you think you should?"

"Shouldn't I?!" I explode. "The world tells people my age that we need to have it all figured out. That just because for some reason we have graduated high school that we now need to go to college, get degrees, get jobs, and start families. Or at the very least have our foot on the path of our goals already. If you don't then you are either behind the curve or are doomed to a life where you are not one of the lucky few that can!"

Somewhere in that rant I had pushed myself up from the seat and was standing. I must have also been making I contact with her the whole time because as my eyes stopped seeing the blur of rage I saw a smile on her face.

"I think we are finally starting to get somewhere," she says handing me my journal back. "I want you to keep writing in this. Everything you think, feel, imagine even."

"Okay," I answer shakily as I sit back down in my seat.

The adrenaline has now worn off. I look up to my therapist. She smiles kindly back at me and says, "I think we will stop here for the day. One mini break through at a time."

"Thank you," I say for the first time and meant it.

"You're welcome," she says offering a hand to help me out of my seat.

For the first time I take the offered hand. It was warm and real. I feel as if I also might cry but one thing at a time. I just need to get through a ride home with my driver and head straight into my room before I allow any tears to be visible.

She walks with me out to the car. As I slip into the seat and turn to put on the seat belt I see her giving me a small wave. I do the same and my driver looks to me with a raised brow. I shrug my shoulders in response. I would like to think it was not my imagination that in my periphery I could see a small smile come onto his face.

We get to my house within minutes. Before I close the door I rasp out a "thank you."

"You are most welcome," he says with a tip of his head.

I give a small smile that he returns and head into my side of the house. My mom had the main part of the house and I lived in the side construction ever since she was told that I could not be left alone. Something about needing to have an eye on me in case I were to break down hysterically.

Apparently they thought it would be a good idea to live near home with an accommodating schedule to my meetings and appointments. I have also had a lot of physical health problems and appointments. At the end of the day I was able to take off on social media, write when I felt like it, and occasionally if I was wanting to be around people I would either stream or go to my friends college common room.

I go through the door, fling my notebook onto the chair in my little sitting area, then head straight to my room. I look at the corner where I have my filming set up and decide that I just will not be filming today. I was too tired.

I crawl under the covers and curl into a ball. For a second I feel as if I am back to my childhood years. I feel the comfort of my bed and that is all I need to know. For a moment I feel as if the past, the present, and the concerns of the world are nonexistent.

I smile as I close my eyes.