“I don’t think you really need to see Stephanie. You’re doing well.”
Hah. Funny, Mom.
I’m doing well? You know nothing. You’ve seen nothing. You’ve heard nothing.
I didn’t really want to see my therapist anyway. I like her, but I don’t tell her much. I don’t tell anyone much. I complain to (let’s call her Lily) Lily a lot, which I shouldn’t, but that’s it.
I thought Eighth Grade was going to be different, that I would be different. But, after almost having a mental breakdown (that term is going to be used a lot) in French class during the first week of school, I realized that I was wrong. That, in fact, Eighth Grade was going to be worse than my other years in Helen Keller Middle School. Much worse.
My gender dysphoria has gotten worse over the years, though I haven’t had much in the past week. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. And so has my anxiety. But, you see, my father doesn’t understand that. He thinks I’m him. He thinks I want everything that he wants. He doesn’t understand. He seems to be trying to turn me into what he wants me to be. A mini-him. I’m similar to him in many ways, but not all. I’m not a mini-him. But, I suppose, in some ways I am.
Dad’s too impatient. That’s his main problem. He doesn’t understand that I don’t process things as fast as he does and I forget things easily and I need things repeated, and because of that he gets angry easily and he scolds me and he sounds like he’s so utterly disappointed in me and then almost immediately afterward he calms down and he sulks in a chair and after a few minutes everything’s okay again and nothing happened. Forgotten.
But he’s not a bad person. I’m lucky to have him as my father. He just has… some bad qualities that make him seem like worse a person than he actually is.
Same goes for my mother, though she seems to be aware of her actions. However it’s mainly when she drinks – she’s scary and senseless when she drinks. She’ll yell at everyone; typically my grandfather when he tries to tell her to calm down. And she doesn’t. And he yells back. Back and forth. Back and forth.
But my issues don’t originate from my parents. They don’t exactly help dissolve them, but they aren’t the main cause of them.
It’s me. I’m the problem. I’m my worst enemy.
I could have a mental breakdown over everything and nothing. I’ve had so many that I’ve lost count of the total number I’ve had. I’ve had multiple breakdowns over not being able to make my bed on the first or second try. There have been times where I’ve been crying and rocking on the floor so long that I’ve forgotten what had made me so upset. So I’d continue crying, but for no reason. And I’d wish that Lily was there. But I also wouldn’t at the same time. I don’t want her to see me like that. But my brain likes to argue with my heart.
If I don’t have any motivation to do something, I won’t be able to do it. Period. End of story. I’ll sometimes collapse onto the floor and it’ll be almost impossible for me to get myself back up. It’s like my mind is pinning me down, saying “Haha, sucker, you can’t get up now and you’re going to stress out over not being able to get up and not having your homework done! Rekt nub.” It typically happens during a mental breakdown, when I’m most stressed out. The monster in my head feeds on it. Feeds on Stress and Anxiety and Depression. Maybe he eats Motivation, too. So I can’t have it. So he can have control over my emotions and create more food.
Dark spaces aren’t my friends. My closet, as an example. Video game characters who I find scary, or things that they do that I find scary, will be there (or do that thing) and I’ll stare at them and they’ll scare back at me and look like they’re coming closer and closer and closer to my bed. When in reality, there’s nothing there. I know there’s nothing there. Yuri and her realistic eyes just look and feel so real, y’know? I can see her fingers curling over the side of the door of my closet, pushing the door open bit by bit. I can see her and her eyes staring at me, trying to
Yuri is the most common one to appear. The others very rarely ever show up. And it’s funny, because Yuri is one of my favourite video game characters. One of my favourite video game characters terrifies me.
The future. It’s what gives me the most anxiety, what makes me torture myself the most. I don’t know how to explain it further. I don’t want to explain it further.
I don’t remember anything else off the top of my head right now.
But it doesn’t matter, anyway.
I’ll be sent to Dr. Thomas. She’ll be stuck to deal with me again. But I don’t really need to see her again, in my eyes. Not for this, at least. It’s not like this will affect my life much. It’s just another piece of writing. What more would you expect out of me? Especially with memoirs. Anything good that happens in my life isn’t exactly interesting enough to others to be written about.
Oh, I forgot a crucial detail. My parents will end up seeing this, no matter how much I would rather that not happen. And my therapist. And whoever else.
Maybe I’ll be put back into IICAPS. Who knows. Hopefully not. IICAPS likes goals. I don’t like them. They’re annoying – to both write and fulfill. “Go to events with your mother.” (Will going to an event starring dinosaurs count?) “Work on your self esteem and self-confidence.” (Hah, not happening.) “Socialize more at school and with your community.” (Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?) I don’t remember actually fulfilling many goals during my Six-Month Treatment of Depressive Behaviors. What a surprise.
But I don’t care anymore. I’ve learned that whenever adults get involved, your life gets shot in its dominant arm. Of course, some adults actually care. But others think that you’re like everyone else: a therapist here and a few pills there. Many people fit that description of treatment. But maybe some of us are better off on our own, figuring out how to solve our own problems. At least I believe I would be.
What have I done.