Hello, November.

You have caught me in only the first day.
I gave up and gave in.
I spoke up without speaking at all.

To the therapist and specialist I go to get color coated candy medicine for depression, anxiety and a proper diagnosis.

Papa cried.
Mama cried.

They don't understand.

And I don't think I want them to.

I only wanted to get better.

Not drag them down with me.

Want to know why it never seems like I care about the material things I break?

It's cause I try harder to make it so that Dianney doesn't break either.

Today was strange.

I woke up alright.

I laughed and smiled lots during 1st and 2nd block.

I was ok for the first half of the day.

Then after lunch

I felt like throwing myself out a window.

Tearing my skin off.

And ripping my skull apart from the inside out.

I was shaking.

Group work was called out for fourth block.

That was the worst thing that could happen.

My head felt like it was floating but being weighed down at the same time. 

The shaking got worse.

The tears floated up to my eyes.

The hands were caressing my throat.

I wanted so desperately to run away and disappear. 

I looked and looked and hid behind my hair.

I tried to ignore the weights and feathers and tears and hands.

I stared at my lap to make it seem like I was the only one there.

No one else. 

I heard explanation coming from behind me.

I heard it come closer.

I felt it hovering above me.

I remembered.

I remembered.

I could've just curled up in a ball and start rocking back and forth and let the tears leak out my eyes and scream until my vocal chords snapped into a thousand strings.

But I didn't.

I kept staring at my lap, as if it would make everything better. 

I kept listening. 

And then blank.

I found myself at the end of the block, awake the whole time, but not being able to recall what had been said or done within the last 50 minutes.

Just blank.

I came home and felt better.

Then again.

My skull was going to crack through the middle and collapse. 

I held on tightly and let out screams whispers of terror. 

I couldn't breathe.

Water in my eyes.

I keep holding on.

Even at practice, 

"Are you okay today? Are you sick or somethin?"

The feeling came back.

And I had nowhere to go.

Nothing I could do about it.

I'm walking from pre-calc down b-hall, toward the rotunda, to down a-hall to get back into b-hall in a full circle like I always do. I already made up my mind last block that I could not go on the rest of the day that block. I decided I would go find you for help. If I got lucky, maybe I'd run into you in person in the hallways. I did. You found me walking with my head down and my eyes glossy and pleading for something. Anything.

Mr. C: Hey Dianne. -smiles-
Me:
Mr. C: You ok?
Me:
Mr. C: You're mad aren't ya?
Me: -shakes head no-
Mr. C: Tell me what you're feelin, mad?
Me: -shakes head no-
Mr. C: Sad?
Me: -shakes head no-
Mr. C:

Your face changes into that concerned look.

Me: I... I don't know what to call it.. I don't know.. how to describe it.

Fat fatty.

Me: My neighbor likes to harass me me on facebook.

Ms. S: Harass you? 

Me: Yeah. Like last year she got her cousin to like call me out on facebook about minding my own business from when Arty said something to her last year about her boyfriend being fake and I was just there. So, I didn't answer because I didn't say anything then. Anyway, I told Arty and he got mad and confronted her. Then we went on her wall and saw that her cousin who messaged me was like "Haha, that b---- didn't answer me." Which is dumb. 

Ms. S:  Wait how old are they?

Me: They're older, definitely. They graduated a couple of years ago. 

Ms. S: Wow. They must really be losers. No offense to you, but why would you pick on people still in high school. 

Me: That's exactly what I was thinking! Anyway, yeah. And that went away, and last night I posted a picture of me from 8th grade til now just saying how much has changed and she commented it saying "Haha, too bad you still look like a slut." 

Ms. S: What?! 

Me: Yep. It was just pictures of my face. So I don't even know. Maybe it's cause I like to wear shorts all the time...? 

Ms. S: So? Who cares? You don't look bad in them anyway cause you're little. 

Me: That might be it, cause, don't mean to be rude or anything, but she is not that little... 

Ms. S: She's probably just jealous then because you can wear shorts and get away with it. And when she wear shorts she just looks like a fatty. 

Me: -cracking up-

Ugh god, I love you.
I consider you to be one of my best friends.
Sorry for always popping in.
Sorry for never warning you I'll stop by.
Sorry for never saying much.
Sorry for saying too much.
Sorry for making you wait around for me.

But thank you.
For always inviting me in.
For always greeting me with a smile when I stop by.
For talking to me.
For being patient for me.

As we were leaving you told me,

Ms. S: Thanks for visiting me. 

Thanks for letting me in.

Sweet Semptember.

This place again. I sign in. I see you. You see me. You beckon me to come in. I did not bring my books this time. I figured I'd be back to class. I figured it'd be wierd if I brought my things this time. I had nothing to show, after all.

Cold. Small. Another chair has been thrown inside the room. You sit in the same spot. I go to sit in the less comfortable chair. You say the other one is comfier. I take that as a sign you want me to sit in that one instead, so I do.

Today starts by saying you're mad at me. You're always mad at me. But I never believe you. I know you're not really mad at me. How could you be? It's not like you are my father. It's not like you are my brother. It's not like you are my friend. You are only here to listen to me whine and complain and cry. The truth is you are disappointed in me. Not mad. I don't care though. I am mad at me too. I am disappointed in me too. You ask me why I did what I did. The only reason I had to support me was that I did not want to do what I had to. 

You ask me if I have any goals. I shake my head no. I do not. You tell me I should.

This upsets you. You lecture me. You tell me to treat school like work. It's important. I don't really care. You ask me what would I do if I had a great job that paid $100,000 and if I screwed up by not doing what I had to, I'd lose the job. I told you the truth. I didn't care. I really didn't. What's $100,000 to someone who has everything already, but has nothing all at the same time? Money makes no difference. Money won't fix this. You continue lecturing. And then say that was your lecture for the day.

You ask me how my summer was. If I did anything. I tell you no. I have stayed inside most of the time. I have gone out about 5 times. Which is true. You lead up to something else that I've been quite curious about for quite some time now.

You: Are you depressed?

Me: I don't know. I guess. 

You: If we were sitting in my office, and I was psychoanalyzing you --which I'm not! I'm a therapist and this is just how I think-- But if I were writing out a prescription, I would diagnose you with dysthemia. Do you know what that is?

Me: /shakes head no.

You: There are different forms of depression.There's major depression, being the highest, and then there are other stages that are lower, like dysthemia. Dysthemia is a minor form of depression. It's like everything is just "eh" you're never too happy about anything, and you're usually low. Everything else doesn't matter. But that's just what would happen if we were in my office.

 Me: 

You continue on by saying that it's okay though because a lot of other teenagers feel that way too. And that you think when I get older it will all be better. And I will get over this. And I will be happy.

You continue with your therapist talk. You tell me there are only 2 types of people in the world. You ask me if I know who they are. I do not know the answer. You raise two fingers and point to them and say, "There are only two types of people in the world. There are neurotic people. And there are psychotic people. 97% of the world being neurotic with everyday kinks and worries that we all think about that bother us. We all pick at tiny flaws about ourselves. The other 3% are psychotics, who are heavily medicated just to keep them alive. I'm trying to keep you in the neurotic circle. We don't want you in the psychotic circle. That's bad.

I think about that. With the world being populated with over a billion people, and 97% being neurotic and normal. 3% being psychotic and medicated. 3% with a big number like that was still a lot. There are a lot of sad people in the world. Am I one of them?

You tell me I am only in the first trimester of my life. I still have a long way to go, unlike you who is in the last trimester of their life. You tell me statistics of average age of dying males in the U.S. You have only about 10 years. This saddens me. I never thought of it that way. I never thought it would be so soon.

My thoughts are broken by your words. You tell me that we have the rest of the year, and until then you are going to try and help me feel better about myself. Feel better about life.

You ask me how I feel. I tell you how every morning the first thought that rushes into my head when I wake up is,"Being awake is the worst feeling ever. Being alive is the worst feeling ever." Your facial muscles contort into a concerned look. Your eyebrows move. Your mouth is in a frown. You tell me, you know how it feels. You understand how it feels. I believe you. You throw me back into your past. You tell me that we both feel the same way. But we both expressed the same thing differently. You were outwardly angry with the world, getting into fights and trouble always. I am inwardly angry, directing most things toward myself. This is true. You tell me it will get better. You tell me to look at you as an example, after all, you made it through til now. You want me to make it through, too. To make the best of what we have now because we don't know if there is any better than this.

We are talking and you see one of your colleagues through the window. You greet him through the door. He creeps in and asks if he is interrupting anything and looks at me. I say nothing. You say no. It's fine. He is in the room with us now. You ask him how he is, and if he needs anything. He says no and smiles, Just wanted to drop by and say hi. You embarrass me

You: I'm just talking to one of my favorite students in the building. This is Dianne. Do you know her?

Him: I've seen her around. Hi Dianne -smiles at me- 

Me: Hi. 

You: Mr. V if you see her around, and she looks sad. Say hi to her and tell her to smile. 

Him: Will do. Well, I'm gonna get goin now. It's gonna be a long day.

You: Ah jeeze, I even have to work on Mr. V too. He's one of the most negative people I know.

Me: Smiles.

He leaves.

I ask you if I am contagious. You laugh and say no. I am not a disease. I tell you I know, but it feels like how I act is spreading. And if this person acts like me, and other act like them without knowing where they got that notion from, then who am I? I tell you it upsets me. You tell me you understand where it's coming from. And you begin to ramble on about how people tend to find people who are like them in character. I tell you, I know, I know. But this is different. This person was different before me. In fact, she was the opposite of me. I told you it is wierd and freaky and I do not like it. You shrug your shoulders and say something. You do not know what to say to that.

Somehow you bring up that I have a good friend at Memorial. I am puzzled. You insist that I have a very good friend there. I am a deer in headlights. I assume it is Mr. Z. You tell me she asks about me all the time, and if you have spoken to me, or have seen me.  She. She...!?!!? I connect the dots quickly. Your face pops up into my head. Your name tumbles out of my mouth.

You tell me that you tell her you are always busy, but you do see me. I am patient for my turn to talk to him all the time because you are busy. You tell me she always tells you that I am her bestest bestest friend. You tell me she talks about me like I am the entire world. I am overcome with emotion. My eyes are tearing up. I tell you I love her lots. She is the best. I tell you of the story of how she came to my house late that night. How her parents love me too. You say she really cares about me then. Your voice has a certain tone of happiness at hearing this.

You ask me if I have had any relationships. I tell you no. I am not interested. I did, but it never really works out. You ask me why. I tell you, I usually don't feel it. You tell me I need to give people a chance. I tell you I do. But it usually does not work. I never get too close to people in the first place. You tell me I am afraid of getting hurt. I do not think that it is that though. It doesn't feel like that. I just have a hard time getting close to others. Even getting to her was hard. But I just started talking and couldn't stop, and that was how it happened.

You tell me that it is ok if I will get hurt, because everything will have an end, and everyone will mourn over a loved one. You tell me that you promised your wife that you would love her until the end, until one of you passes away. Whoever passes away first, you will mourn for each other.

I tell you I know. It is not that I am afraid of getting hurt because I still hurt even before any relationship because of what is inside of my head. You smile at me and tell me that's right. You are glad I am aware of my actions and what the consequences I bare myself are.


You ask me something again:

You: Is there anything I can do to make you happy?

Me:

You: What can I do to make you happy?

Me: This. I like this. I like being here. 

You: Good. We have the whole rest of the year for this. For me to work on you so that you see  things differently by the end of the year. I want to help you because I like you and I care about you. It's hard to see you when you feel this way. I don't want you to feel this way.

You tell me I should get back to class now or my teacher will be mad at you.You and he are good friends. You tell me that Friday will be our day, and that you will try to mix it up when you call me down because my 4th block teacher will come after you if I come down at the same time all the time. This amuses me.

You are signing my pass back to class, and I tell you I continued to write over the summer. I ask if you would like to see it and you say yes. I say Ok. At this, you asked me if I painted anything over the summer. To your disappointment, I tell you I have only once. But it is not in my hands. It is in her hands. I show you a picture of it though. You look at it and tell me you like it. It is different. You are seeing something different from me. It is so interesting to you because it is not the same horror and pain that usually comes from my hands. It is a different feeling this time. You tell me it is very good, and that you would like to see it in person. I tell you that you will have to ask her to bring it in because I am sure she will if you ask her. You tell me you will make sure to ask.

You ask me if I am doing anything this weekend. I have to think because the schedule for me had already left me. I tell you and you tell me good luck. You have a wedding to go to and would much rather go to your son's soccer match. You tell me to have a good weekend. I tell you I will try.

I leave feeling better than I did beforehand. I am feeling a bit lighter. I have something to look forward to now. I have some sort of incentive to try.

I do not know if I am making a step forward only to fall even harder than before. I do not know if I am making a step forward to really leave the place I am in now. I only know that I like that I am moving. Even if it is only a step.

Good news.

There's a highly likely chance I suffer from dysthemia.

Oh boy.