November Rain.

Razorblades.

“Please could you stay awhile to share my grief.  For it’s such a lovely day to always have to feel this way.  And the time that I will suffer less is when I never have to wake . . . Wandering stars for whom it is reserved the blackness of darkness is forever.”

I stood in the bathroom and rimmed my eyes in black cole liner, applied my mascara and just stared.  I hadn’t a clue of who I was at this point in time anymore.  All I recognized were my eyes, even they were distant memories of what they were.  My eyes are what have always distinguished me one way or another.  They were, what were, made fun of because my vision was so bad.  Now they were what most found some what enchanting . . . or intriguing, I must laugh with that said.  I had heard it so much from men, I usually just waited for it. Then with a bat of the lash, proceeded to win them over into the champagne room with their debit card in my hands.  Now it was different, I was not very well, emotionally I had been destroyed and physically let’s just I looked so frail I probably was weighing about 93 pounds.  I am very small but that was about ten pounds to light.  I drank coffee and ate twizzlers, that was it.  I was not in my bathroom anymore the one that I had built and designed, that was where I fell apart on the marble floor.  Then as quick as that happened, or some would say as slow, that relationship was like watching someone getting gutted in the stomach over and over again.  Just when you thought it was over it began again.  Nobody could make me leave, I had the house, the man and nothing, not even my dignity could make me leave. It wasn’t until years later when I did for good.  I was now in my bathroom, the same one that I grew up in, the one that my mother used to braid my hair in. I looked into that same mirror, who the fuck have you become.  I think being out of that house I regained a small glimpse of who I was very soon after my arrival.  I hadn’t worn that eye make up in over a year, my ex, he hated me and everything that I was or maybe what I wasn’t.  Well, I wasn’t his anymore . . .  thank you god, or whoever I should thank, I would have died a broken woman over there in that house.  I was back living with my father, dear sweet man, I was a fucking nightmare.  Today was the day I was going to meet the new psychiatrist, it had been almost a decade since I was in therapy.  I never did all that well in treatment, I would manipulate the shit out of any shrink.  If I was going to go I wanted a “top notch” doctor, no bullshit.  Some therapy that friends of mine are into is  playing in sandboxes as adults with toys and talking about why they placed the starfish next to the stuffed bear, that is some dumb ass crazy shit. I don’t know what it is called but I can’t see that being very helpful.  What are you, like 5? No thanks, I want to be analyzed.  It is next to impossible to find a shrink, a good one that is, they are never accepting new patients.  I also usually don’t like them as people, its a fucking crap shoot, then there is one hundred and seventy dollars gone sorry, I don’t have that to piss away.  I wanted, even though I really didn’t, who am I kidding I hated the idea of  a woman therapist. That though is what I needed, I would not feel like I wanted to manipulate her, or I would not spend my time trying to flirt or seduce the way I would a man.  Just in my nature. I got what I wanted, a very unattractive woman in her late fifties, there was no messing around, this bitch was cold as ice.  I went into the appointment, my dad took me, I was not ok, but my outfit was stellar, I was going for a very chic french look . . . trench coat, messy bun, black tights, heels the hole shebang.  I may have been a pile of emotional shit but I could still pull it together like no ones business  . . . and that is the problem.  I pull it together only then later fall apart alone and self destruct.

I went to therapy not just once a week, she wanted me to do three times a week. OK. What the fuck is that about, now I am scared, not just because I think she is trying to hustle a self paying client (fucking cunt), she now has the power to lock me away.  I know I am a little crazy, hell a lot, but three times a week.  Hearing that fucked me up even more.  I continued see this doctor for about three weeks, she was reading some of my writing and then it happened.  She said ok “Rachel” we need to talk about medication and a possible in treatment program.  Now this to all of you sounds like no big deal, right? Except for the fact my name is not “Rachel”.  I looked at her, and said what did you call me, she said “Rachel” again.  I told her that was not my name and asked for my writings back. I informed her that she really should put a little bit of effort into her patients, you know their well being and all.  I told her she was taking advantage of me and my check book.  I didn’t not pay her for that session nor did I ever go back.  Fucking shrinks, they are all such bull shit.  I walked out to my car and there was a parking ticket on it.  Of course there was, maybe it was a higher power telling me you shouldn’t have been there, this is what you get.  I drove down Temple Street, it was beginning, that cold November rain.  I knew that I had to find some balance, I had to find me and I had to start eating again. I never went back into therapy, it is a choice.  I started making dinner every night for me and my father, even if at that time it was the same fucking thing, he ate with me.  I cried a lot, I had a shoulder to cry on, I just need to be loved as I always was, more then that, I needed to be safe.

-ApplejAxe

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~ by applejaxe on June 20, 2012.

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