White washed.

Theme Week 3: Setting The Scene

I don't understand what's happening to me.

"Mom, I'm not happy."

As she lifts my arm to view, she smirks. "I can see that."

I fumble with my shirtsleeves, I don't really know what to say. The red glow from the coffee pot is blinding me, it's 11:42 p.m.

"Kasey, you need to stop this. You're not letting yourself be happy."

The green floor tiles are splashed with pale blue, they match my chipped fingernail polish. I don't even know why I put it on. It always flakes off.

"Do you think I'm crazy, mom?" I don't look at her. I don't dare. It's hard sometimes, wishing she could see the pain, but not wanting to see her see it. I'm afraid to see people as they sense my emotions. It's as if I'm poison to both.

Taking on an almost chastizing tone, she says, "Kasey, stop this. You're not crazy. You are only 15, and the world is not ending no matter how much you think it is."

She'll never understand. I don't think the world is ending. I'm just getting ready to end my own.
What's the point of sitting in for life when all you can see is the cage around yourself? I feel like I'm in a box. If I step out, I'm a freak, but if I stay in, I'm... still a freak. Can I stay in the cardboard? That's an in-between. Maybe it'll balance it out.

"I don't know what to tell you, Kase. I'm not good with this affection stuff. I just can't do it. Do you think you should see a psychiatrist?" Sure, mom. I'll let them poke and prod my brain. Maybe they can figure out why I don't know how to feel properly. I'm a drama queen remember? Just give me some drugs.

"I don't want to be on drugs, mom. I'm not a labrat." Complete hypocrite, I am. I want drugs, but I don't want to know that I'm taking them. Isn't that ironic? I'm a walking contradiction. I want what I don't want because I want it. Yeah, I'm definately crazy. But does a crazy person have these analytical thoughts? I'm sure that if I really was crazy, I wouldn't be thinking this rationally.

Mom is silent. She thinks I'm over-doing it. Fuck you. I don't want to look at you.

"Let's go see a shrink, then." I decided that I should try it.

-----

"Why are you letting him have control over your life, Kasey?"

Stupid fucking psycho-babble. Psychiatrists don't really know anything. They only think they do. I'm not letting anyone control my goddamn life. I am afraid of fear and afraid of pain, I'm not afraid of him. He just manifests that.

I'm going to join the scientology group. They're much more interesting.

---

"We can't go see your psychiatrist anymore, Kase."

I think to myself, he's a moron anyway. It's only been two visits and he thinks I'm showing seizure activity because I'm angry a lot.

"Why not?" I pretend to be alarmed.

"He's been accused of child-molestation. He's lost his license to practice." She doesn't really seemed bother by that. My jewish psychiatrist, a child-molestor? He doesn't seem like the type.

"Well, it saves you some money. I don't need therapy anyway. I'll just keep writing." She looks up at that statement.

"Are you feeling better?"

I pause for a moment. "For now, mom. When I feel like slitting my wrists again, I'll let you know, so you'll be prepared to finance my funeral."

Oh yeah, Kasey, You're definately crazy.

posted by Kasey @ 8:40 PM