Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > A Tale Of Wasted Youth

Mood Triggers

by wheresyourheart 3 reviews

therapy session

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Characters: Frank Iero - Warnings: [!!!] - Published: 2009-04-24 - Updated: 2009-05-03 - 433 words

Sunday, May Fourth

Wishful thinking has made me believe that things are getting better. Sure, things have changed, but they're progressively getting more out of hand.

I guess I should explain.

This little "breakdown", as you like to call it, was brought on by many years of things that I had never bothered to bring up, let alone think about. I don't even want to put it down on paper. But I'm sitting here, against my better judgement, scribbling these thoughts in a composition notebook that my mom bought at the Rite Aid downtown. And I hate it.

So, a list is what I'm supposed to be writing. A list of "mood triggers". What makes me happy, sad, and just plain pissed.

Let's See.

Lacrosse practice, makes me pissed. I hate it. I don't know why I signed up, but now my dad won't let me quit.

Being with Frank, makes me happy. And confused.

My little brother, makes me pissed.

Playing my guitar, makes me happy.

Thinking about life, makes me sad and pissed. And scared.

This really, seriously, honestly... sucks. This makes me annoyed. I understand that therapy will help me with my "problems" and all, but writing down what mood I'm in about certain things... eh.

And you are staring at me right now over your own notebook. Your hair is rather frizzy for my liking. You make me pissed, just sitting there.

Alright, I guess I do have a bit of an anger problem. But in my defense, your voice is pretty nasaly and obnoxious, and you do this weird thing where you suck on your lips.

Oh I would feel bad if you had to read this. But I only show you if I want.

Writing down any last thoughts... um... I have none. I'm out of here in forty more minutes... forty minutes too much.


"How was Dr. Judith?" Mom asks me as we pull out from the empty parking lot outside of the brick building that is the therapist's.

She isn't looking at me, but I shrug anyway. "Lame."

Mom visibly sighs. We slow to a stop at a red light. "Oh. What did you do?"

"I wrote stuff."

She smiles, the car moves again. "You're always writing stuff. What else did you do?"

"Sat there."

Silence. Mom tells me, "I understand the confidentiality thing, so I won't push the subject."

I push my bangs from my eyes and stare out the window. When we get home, I go straight to my room, take a shower, and go to sleep without dinner, without facing my family.
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