His phobia sent him there, but what's stopping him from going home?
'You're going to be fine here, Frank,' My mom told me as she dropped me off out side the hospital. She had driven three hundred miles with me, just to take me here. I looked at it in disgust-how could this place ever help anyone? They sure as hell weren't going to help me. I wasn't even sure there was something wrong with me. Okay, my phobia was getting worse, but couldn't I just carry on with therapy? I mean, c'mon! I'm not 'mental institution' material. I told my mom that.
'Frank, honey, this isn't a mental institution! There is one here, but that's not where I'm sending you, I promise. This is just to help with your phobia-it's gotten too much. When was the last time you slept?' that got me. In truth, it had been about three and a half weeks, but my mom had only figured out I wasn't sleeping ten days ago.
I looked down at my hands, a feeling of guilt for all I had put my mom through the last few years washing over me. My phobia left me almost like a child; having to check the bed before I stepped into it, disassembling, then re-making the quilt and pillows to shake them out and check that they're clear, making sure there aren't any gaps anywhere, un-packing then re-packing my school bag each morning, cleaning, disinfecting and bug-spraying the whole house four times a day...to be honest I'm kinda surprised it's not my mom being sent to one of these places...and all that shit's just the tip of the ice burg. It's gotten so much worse now. There was more to start with anyway, but now I refuse to lie down in case they're in the mattress, I haven't eaten anything than I can't pull to shreds and eat tiny morsel by tiny morsel in about a month, I won't walk near plants in case they're hiding under the leaves, and I can't go into a room that has stuff in it without it all being moved, cleaned, checked, double checked, and checked again each time I enter.
I was starting to wonder what the point of living was, if I couldn't even eat an apple. I was basically living off of crackers and water. Only I couldn't drink the water out of a glass-they might be in it-it had to be out of the smallest straw we could find. Even then I was reluctant, and had been putting up with an almost constant headache from mild dehydration. I had been told by the doctors at the local hospital (this one was a real one, not a place for crazy people) that I had to go here, because other wise I might be dead before I graduate high school.
'I-I'm sorry, mom. I don't know how to deal with this anymore. And to be honest, I'm not sure I want to,' I heard her gasp as I spoke, and looked up to see fresh tears in her eyes. She looked terrified! Oh god..how I would give anything to get rid of that look from her face..
'What are you saying? Frank? Ar-are you saying you want to end it? That you want to die?' the last part was a whisper, almost like she was afraid if she spoke it, it would become true and I would fade away on the spot. I tried to shake my head, but it was a lie. I wasn't sure what I wanted. All I knew was that if this didn't stop soon, I wouldn't have a choice-it would be end it, or live in fear, in a large completely empty room being fed and watered through a tube, not really being alive anyway.
'I'm not saying that now,' I told her. I just wanted to calm her down. 'I'm gonna give this a go, but if it doesn't work, I really want the quiet and fearlessness of death. I've had enough of this,' I was half expecting her to yell at me, telling me she was ashamed I had even considered giving up, but instead she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around me. We stayed there for a few moments before my car door swung open. I jumped back, cringing away from the man I could see. Pockets...a terrified shiver shot through me as I saw the deep sacks on the sides of his white coat. I let out a soft whimper before trying to climb out the other side, over my mom.
'What is it, honey?' she said, stopping me in my tracks.
'His pockets. They might be in there.' wow...that actually sounded crazy...
'What is it you thinks going to be in my pockets?' he asked me, leaning down, so his face was in the door, rather than just his coat. I simply stared at him for a moment before trying something I hadn't done in years-name my phobia.
It didn't go so well. Every time I tried to speak it, ether it's common or scientific name, I started to shiver violently, and by the time I gave up, I had to be forcibly removed from the car as I was shaking too much to move. I began humming to myself to drown out the conversation between my mother and the doctor that was drifting my way, but I couldn't block it out completely before he asked her what my fear was. I cringed as she said it.
'Spiders. He's terrified of spiders.'
I'm sorry if i've offended anyone with a huge phobia of spiders =[ i have one too, so this was quite hard for me to write XD if you thought i went over-board on what he was now doing to avoid them, i was just thinking about what lengths i would go to if i let myself. thanks soo much for reading! xo