*Frerard* Everyone has issues, everyone has secrets.. don't they? (warning contains SH)
Sitting in a therapist's office is a lot like how I imagine it would be to sit in one of those fake houses - the ones you see on TV adverts for bathrooms or kitchens. The room I'm currently sat in, for example, is a perfect representation of therapy rooms everywhere. The walls are a smooth 'calming' blue colour; bare except for three artistically positioned canvas photos showing a barren, endless sandy beach. There's a pale wood-effect bookcase in one corner which holds exactly twelve perfectly aligned paperbacks that have, all too obviously, never been read, or even opened. The only other furnishings in the room are a sickeningly bright artificial plant that stands perfectly upright on the windowsill, and the brand new desk at which the school counsellor sits, smiling intensely at me from her black leather swivel chair.
It's perfect, shiny and completely emotionless.
Of course this isn't the first time I've been sat on the other side of the therapist's desk. I've been seeing various shrinks for the last couple of years, ever since my one and only secret got exposed. Now, for most people, having secrets is a part of life; an unavoidable part of being human. And for lots of people, these secrets are actually pretty trivial things, things that people keep to themselves simply because it's easier than telling them. A lot of the time, having those secrets found out wouldn't be too much of a big deal...yeah they might find that someone is slightly pissed off with them, or feel a bit guilty for a while, but after the initial shock people would realise that it wasn't that important, and the secret would be forgotten, to most likely end up the subject of a light hearted, nostalgic conversation years later.
But I have a different experience of how things can turn out.
You see, I have a secret; a dark, lonely, pathetic secret that haunts me relentlessly every single day. And the thing about having a secret for so long is that eventually you get used to it, and sometimes you forget to hide it; forget to pretend. So that's what happened. I wasn't careful enough, I forgot to hide, and someone found out.
It's a word everyone's heard before. Everyone's aware of the stereotype, the misconceptions and the prejudices. Personally, I hate it; it's such a harsh, blunt word. Not to sound like a pretentious prick but it's almost an onomatopoeia... which makes it even worse. I guess it's thrown around in school quite a lot, used as a 'joke'. But to someone who understands, to someone who knows what it's like, it's not funny. It's not funny at all.
I guess that's the category I fall in to; I'm simply put in a box with all the other rejects of the world, just waiting for someone to find us, someone to help.
I'm not blaming them, I mean for someone who's never experienced it, it's practically impossible to understand. I know, because I haven't always been this way. Obviously no one is born a self harmer, but what I mean is that I have experienced both sides of the story.
I remember when I was eleven I had a friend a couple of years older than me who once told me he had been cutting himself. Even when he showed me the slowly healing scratches on his wrist, I couldn't understand, couldn't even imagine how someone could do that to themselves.
'ëBut doesn't it hurt?', I said, 'doesn't it bleed?'
'Yes.' was all he said, looking at me with empty, glazed-over eyes. I remember feeling sorry for him, and comforting him, but the whole time all I could think was I could never do this to myself... how can people do this to themselves?
A lot has changed since then.
I don't actually remember the first time I did it. It's not that it was too long ago to remember, I think I've kind of almost subconsciously blocked the memory out; locked it away in the big metal vault at the back of my mind because it frightens me to have to think about it. But people have a habit of asking why. My mom asked why through her tears when she forced me to come downstairs when I was still half asleep and in my pyjamas. My short sleeved pyjamas. What can I say? It was eight am on a Saturday and I'd just woken up to my mom shouting at me to 'Get the hell down here NOW!' I wasn't exactly thinking straight at the time...
Turns out all she wanted was for me to move my goddam bike off of the front doorstep so the postman could actually get to the door. That freaking bike ruined everything. I ruined everything.
Why couldn't I have just moved it the night before when I got home from school? For her sake, If not mine. I love my mom so much, and one thing that disgusts me more than what I've become is the fact that the woman who brought me up single handed, and would do anything for me, had to find out what a pathetic mess her only son had become.
My step-dad asked why when he walked in from work to find my mom sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands; when he found me locked in my room, sitting numbly on my bed being strangled by thick tendrils of fear and shame.
I ask myself why sometimes- like now as I look around the room, desperately trying to avoid the therapists eyes, looking anywhere but at her. Why do I get myself into these situations?
"So how have you been, Frank?" She asks politely after our spontaneous staring competition.
"Well I've been hurting myself for the last two years because I suffer from depression, I hate myself and so does everyone else, I'm a bad person who doesn't deserve a normal life.. et cetera. And everyone thinks I'm in recovery at the moment but in reality I only managed to stop for a couple of months before I started cutting again. Oh and I've been lying to everyone, including you, for weeks now because i'm too ashamed and embarrassed to tell the truth... so how the fuck do you think I've been?"
That is what I really want to say. Those are the words that are on the tip of my tongue, ready to burst out at any time if I let myself say them. But of course, I don't really say that. That would just be stupid.
"Fine." I reply emptily.
She looks at me, her face stone-cold and stretched into a perfect expression of calm.
"Do you want to talk about anything particular in today's session?"
Maybe. "No. "
"Okay, so lets talk about your progress. How many days have you counted since you last hurt yourself?"
Zero. "Forty-three." I whisper through gritten teeth, trying not to make it obvious that i'm lying.
She smiles brightly. I think she buys it. "That's an amazing achievement, Frank. You should be proud. Are you proud?"
No. "I guess."
She sighs, picking at some papers on her perfectly organised desk. "Look, Frank, you need to be able to be open and honest with me, this therapy is a two-way trust thing," more picking at the paper, "You need to be able to talk about these things if you want to move on with your recovery, and the rest of your life."
I can't take this woman talking at me like this for much longer.. I swear to god I'm walking out of here if she mentions her fucking 'two-way trust' pact one more time.
"Frank are you listening to me?"
"I just want you to realise that this is a two-way trust relationship..."
Wow I know I haven't updated Summertime in ages but I realised I really want to write about something where I can really get my emotions out, and kind of vent a bit. Sorry if it's kinda depressing.. but I hope it's okay:) So it's gonna be a kind of mini-fic I guess- at the moment it's about seven or eight chapters long but I'll see how it goes and then decide whether to lengthen it or not.
[*Anyway, if you rate and review this I will love you forever, thanks guys :3