Wake up.

I wrote this a couple years ago actually, and just found it in my pit of unfinished documents. Tell me what you think

        This room is a bit too white for my liking. The walls are an eggshell shade, and the curtains seem to be closer to that of a soggy, white dog, wet from running through the wet grass. The couches are all dark brown, a shade that reminds me of tree bark. I sit at the edge of a love seat, dark brown leather, and it squeaks whenever I shift my weight against it.

            The lighting in the room bothers me more than the color scheme. The yellow of the bulbs above my head make my forehead sweat and I continually wipe the beads of salt water onto the sleeves of my shirt. As I lay my hand back down into my lap, I stare absentmindedly at the fabric of my shirt. The cotton feels is soothing upon my scarred skin and I am faintly smiling to myself.

            I didn’t realize that he walked in already and my smile instantly faded as our eyes met. His appearance looks soft. No scruff of the chin, no darkness in his eyes. He seems kind from what I see of him. Having been coming here for a couple months now, I can say that he is as nice as he looks. I don’t hate what he is; I just hate myself for ending up in this situation. The mere fact that I was forced to attend these therapy sessions after all that has happened is what upsets me the most. I guess it could be worse, and I have come a long ways since then, I just hate talking about my feelings. But with this guy doesn’t let you go anywhere unless you give him something to work with. I hate crying, or being sad, and I hate people feeling sorry for me in return, but that is who I am. I can live with that. I guess.

            “Hello, Maddie. “ I was named after my grandmother when I was born. Madeline Lee. I call myself Maddie for short because the full version is kind of old fashion for my taste. I love my name all the same, but I still like to at least try and fit in.

            “Hey,” I respond back with.

            “And how are we doing today? If you don’t mind my asking.” He starts with this statement every time. It sort of bugs me because he is a therapist. Aren’t people of these professions supposed to ask those kinds of questions? Of course I mind, but it is his job to start with that, yet he still has to ask. I just sort of shrug, knowing my day hasn’t been all that exciting.

            “Kind of boring.”

            “Boring?”

            “Yes,” I mimic, “boring.” There is a second of silence after these exchanged words and I move my gaze to my shoes until he speaks up.

            “I see you are still wearing long sleeves.”

            “What?”

            “I mentioned that you are still wearing long sleeves. You’ve been wearing long sleeved shirts every session for the past four months. I believe this is a pattern.” As he talks to me, he is assembling the coffee maker to make a pot of freshly brewed coffee, at his maple-wooden desk that matches the shades of the furniture. I haven’t had coffee in so long. My mom banned caffeine from the house altogether to see if it would change anything. I can’t really tell the difference because the whole first week was just one agonizing, continuous headache. I couldn’t leave my bed that whole week and being stuck there with nothing to do but think thoughts in my hurting head was not the best experience. I don’t think caffeine was the source of my problems. My mother just likes to give problems a reason. That way, at least in her mind, everything makes sense.

            I don’t feel the same way my mother does on this matter. When something happens to you, there doesn’t have to be a big reason for it all. Maybe everything really does happen for a reason? I honestly feel that everything I have been through the past couple of year have really happened for a reason.

            “It’s not a pattern. I just like them. I’m comfortable.”

            “Comfortable?”

            “Yes. Comfortable.” He really irritates me when he does that, the indirectness of his answers, and I feel like it maybe relates to our relationship between each other, indirect.

            “How would you feel about taking that shirt off?” He suggests to me. At first I am appalled that he would be asking and eighteen year old girl to strip, and my eyes widen in shock at his suggestion, but after a couple of seconds, I realize he is talking in a metaphorical sense. I can see the faint smile as he could clearly see I was confused in my head, but shrugs it off. He stands up, and walks over to the coffee maker, it having finished brewing the pot of liquid it now contains.

            “I like long sleeves. I like my privacy.” I say. He glances back over at me.

            “Would you like some coffee?” He asks me.

            “Two creamers. Thanks.” He nods his head as he assembles the cups. I don’t care what my mother says. I love my coffee.

            “Privacy is a funny thing. Isn’t it?” He walks back over to where we were currently sitting, and as he sits down in the chair across from me, he hands me my cup. The warmth radiates through my fingertips that have gone numb just from the cold air that circulates in this room. I close my eyes and let this warmth exhilarate my body.

            “You don’t like letting people in, Maddie.”

            “Is that necessarily a bad thing?”

            “Privacy is good. Privacy is what separates the humans from the savages,” I watch as he raises his left hand out to the air along his left side, and then his right hand along his right side, as if he were physically separating the two. Like it was even possible this.

            “Are you saying I am a savage, for having to keep people out?”

            “You said you have to keep people out that time. Why have to keep people out of your business?”

            “Maybe I think all people are nosy. They all need to back off.” Maybe I was talking about him, my mother, my so-called high school friends, anybody. So many faces run through my mind right now. I don’t seem to know what I am thinking.

            “What about the people who are just trying to help you, Maddie? They only do what they do because they love you.” A rush of anger fill my body and forces me to stand. I can’t sit when I get this way. The anger feels as if one thousand bulls course through my veins. charging throughout my body and trampling through my heart. No one loves me. He is only saying that because it is the nice, polite thing to say in this moment. That is what they all say.

            I step over to the window that sits against the wall behind the ugly couch.  The sun is shining. I wish I could open the window to feel it’s warmth, but he would probably try to stop me, as if I were about to do something I would regret. My body craves warmth right now. The shivers that run up and down my spine and bones bothers me. I don’t know how I dealt with this before, but it has gotten to the point where I can’t stand being cold. When I am cold I feel dead, and I don’t like the feeling of death like I used to.

            “Maddie, a lot of people have hurt you.”

            “Obviously.”

            “Obviously, but that doesn’t mean that every person you meet is going to hurt you in the future. Learning from mistakes is something every human learns to do.”

            “That’s hard.”

            “Life it hard,” I know he is just being blunt. I’ve realized this by the way he responds to some of my arguments but it helps when he doesn’t talk to me as if I am a gentle flower, like this statement. I like having someone to talk to that treats me not only as why I am here in the first place, but also as a normal person.

            I smile as I am looking out the window. There is tightness in my throat from pushing back tears as I think upon memories. My face is probably really red right now, as my skin seems to be super sensitive to everything. I continue to face the window until I have my emotions under control. I am still holding my cup of coffee too. The black liquid in the cup is almost beautiful the more I stare at its consistency. I know I shouldn’t stare out this window too long, or he will saying something a therapist would usually say and make me even more emotional. That fact shouldn’t bother me though. He is a therapist after all.

            “Maddie.” He breaks the silence that was filling the heavy air. I glance down at my cup of coffee again, my fingers intertwined within each other and I grip its warmth as if my body wants to pull this warmth into myself. I take a sip of this goodness and warmth and my eyes close, taking it all in. The blackness fills my mouth, then my throat, and then I feel the heat trails down my spine and my body does a little dance as if I were possessed by it.

            “Yes,” my reply is faint, probably almost too faint for him to hear.

            “Maddie, why do you think you can’t let anyone in? It sounds like this is what hold you back.”

            “Why are you so curious?” My tone is sort of defendant. That’s bad. It means his tactics are getting in my head. I know there is really no use in fighting him off much longer, yet I try even harder to do so. I just fight the words away from my brain, almost blocking the words from entering my ears like a young infant being told to sit in the far corner after having done something bad.

            “Why.” His question is said, not asked. I don’t really know what that means for me. I turn around to face him, finally, but once our eyes meet, my gaze turns to the coffee maker across the room.

            “Would you like more coffee?” As I know my cup is still close to full, I nod my head no, biting my lower lip as I do. I few more seconds of silence go by followed by my feet walking back towards the loveseat I was sitting in earlier. I do this only when I feel the tightness in my throat ease enough to actually speak.

            “Because…” My reply is faint once again. I can’t seem to help it. The words I try to speak are fighting off the need to cry that is embedding in my chest. I feel like the more I try to use those words, the easier it will be for me to cry and I can’t handle that.

            “Because what?”

            “Because it hurts.”

            “It hurt because it mattered.”

            “That’s John Green’s quote.”

            “And he is a great man to look up to.” His mouth curls up into a faint smirk. He’s trying to be funny. I like that he makes me smile and laugh at his silly little jokes and puns now and then. It’s comforting.

            “That is true. I love his books.”

            “You’ve been reading again?” His tone suggests that he is impressed I can read. I am taken aback at first, but I understand what he means.

            “Yeah,” I reply, “It gives me something to do now that I am out of school.” He nods.

            “Are you writing yet?”

            “No.”

            “I see. But don’t worry. Baby steps.” He says, consoling me.

            “Yeah.” The room is filling with silence again. I feel like I should be saying something. It’s been close to 30 minutes, and I feel like this whole conversation has been nonsense. I am really bad at talking. I always have been. My parents have always been on the quiet side so I have always kind of known that I would turn out that way. I just don’t like it. I hate always being the quiet one, the one who would sit in the back of the classroom and not say a word. Actually, I would sit in the front row. In every class I would sit in the front row, first seat, right next to the door. That way I am out of the way, no one is looking over my shoulders, and the teacher still sees me, but not enough to see I am trying to be avoided and still skips over me every time.  

            This anger I put onto myself, I feel, is building up inside of me, a boiling point of emotions evolving in the pit of my stomach.

            “I just don’t want to be like this anymore…” I feel kind of embarrassed for saying this allowed, and part of me wishes I could take it back once I got the words out, but obviously that isn’t possible.

            “You don’t want to be like what anymore?” He asks me.

            “I don’t want to be like this anymore. Sitting in this room, talking about my feelings and all that I have been through. I don’t want to realize that all that has happened is real because I wish this were a dream. And I wish I would wake up already.”

            “Waking up. It is something that you have control over. You have the power inside of you to do that.” He says.

            What does that even mean?

            “How do I do that?” I question.

            “Well, if I told you the answer to that, then you won’t get better.” I look down to my lap to find I am rubbing my palms back and forth along my dark shaded jeans.

            “I have always felt that there is a reason that all of this has happened. I just don’t know why, and it kills me to not know the answer.”

            “Sometimes we may never get that answer.”

            “Yes, but it sucks.” I stand in outburst.

            “It does suck.” The room was silent again for a couple more seconds and it must be because he hates silent moments, because I watch as his body shifts slightly, his back straightening as if he thought of something. I can almost see the metaphorical light bulb brighten above his head and inside I am laughing.

            “Why don’t we stop here for today?” A part of me is sad that I have to leave now.

            “Oh.”

            “But I want you to try something from me, Maddie. Just until our next meeting at the end of the week.” I stand up and gather myself before heading for the door as he continues to speak.

            “What is that?”

            “To wake up, one must find how they fell asleep in the first place.”

            “Yeah?” I say, questing what the rest of the monologue would be, but he doesn’t speak. He takes the pencil he has been using to write down notes and places it on the tiny table next to him, stands up, and sets his empty coffee mug along the dark, maple wood of his desk.

 

Reviews

[ANTO]

"found it in my pit of unfinished documents..." - lol - I want one of these P.U.D. pits - I have to have one

I have to tell you - I found the familiarity of the counsellor unprofessional, risky and hard to accept having personal experience of these people, especially the 'how would you feel about taking that off' remark - leaving himself wide open to malpractice - I doubt they would be this way especially if they 'meant' it to be confusing and ambiguous - seems like flirting.

I think I'll come back to this one - later
:)

[Samantha Lynn]

Every therapist is different. They are only people who study people and they all practice differently. They have emotions, thoughts, sass, peace, anger, insults, etc. etc. the list could go on, because they are just that. Human. I give you my highest promise in saying that you will never like every therapist that you encounter. You will never like every person you meet. That's the thing about life, and I promise you my life with that statement.

[ANTO]

Thank you - I overlooked the human aspect - seeing so many of these guys they become another talking head - thats my fault and you have highllighted my own flaw - I cant thank you enough for that. I never expected that
:)))

[Haeshin]

Ah! So he's a therapist. For a minute there I thought that the girl should run and call the cops.

I'd definitely suggest using bigger text size. It strains the eyes and people can shy away from that and your writing along with it.

[Samantha Lynn]

You could just zoom in on the page. That works just as well.

[Undeadjem]

Not too bad!! First person can be such a pain to write in, and I feel like you have a lot of potential with it! The story was very entertaining, keep it up!