Getting the Meds.

I am told thinking is not a bad thing, but how is it not a bad thing when you think about your own death, when you think about self inflicted pain.

i sit n the doctors office... i hate it here, but i guess being here is a start right? my mom made an appointment for my depression. i hide it so easily. i act fine, fake it til you make it right? but it's hard when you are ding inside. i sit on the bed/ table/ whatever this thing is called... does it even have a name? i try and get comfortable, which is completely impossible, i don't know why i try. the paper crinkles and pops beneath my butt. the mirror behind me is kinda odd.. i mean when i turn around i see myself staring back, and i hate myself. i see that slight double chin beneath my own. I can see where the fat hugs around my middle, and where makes my face look bloated. that is the real reason i am here. yes i have depression, i think, but i want a prescription med. my best friend is on it and so is my dad, and he lost like 60 pounds, and Kaitlyn lost 20. I want that weight off of my body. I hear footsteps that stop briefly as of looking at whatever file they keep on the adolescent girl waiting inside. the door opens and i see my Doctor turn towards me as she comes in. i will tell her what she needs to know to give me the meds. and no more, i mean she is going to tell my mom everything so i need to be careful.