White Jacket in The Will of the Phoenix

It didn’t come as a surprise to me when the words split between his thin lips. He sat in the cliche way that we’re used to seeing them sit in movies and TV shows, leaned back with his legs narrowly crossed. A notebook rested atop the bend of his knee while he tapped his pen against the page full of notes.

“Severe Depression”

Thanks, Doc. Big fucking shocker. I wondered why I felt like I was in such emotional turmoil, staring at my ceiling at night and unable to sleep for no reason. I wondered why oh why it was that most nights, I was haunted yet tempted at the bittersweet idea of ending my own life.

There were the delicate, yet straight forward questions that followed in the conversation.

“How were you going to do it?” “What was your childhood like?” “Can we talk more about this?” “Can we talk more about that?”

And I dug deep....and I told him the truth....about everything. My anger isn’t at him....my doubts aren’t with him, but with myself.

Despite the negative in me that seeps from my pores....I confided.

Because even though I want to die, I don’t want to die.
Because I’m scared that one day I’ll follow through with my unoriginal, yet somehow fantastic plan to play in traffic…or simply turn a barrel to myself and give the trigger a gentle squeeze.

I’m sick.....and this little man in a white jacket is my only hope to get better now. I’m going to try. I want to get better. But it’s so god damn hard to find my light.

Last updated November 30, 2017