The silence was loud, I could only hear the scratching of Klea's pen against the clipboard. Every stroke felt like a judgment, a jagged line carving out a version of me I didn't recognize. I shifted in my seat, my hands trembling.
"You don't understand," I blurted out, the words spilling over.
"It isn't just a hunch. Malina is calculated. Every 'innocent' conversation she has with my mother, every whisper to my ex-boyfriend—it's a slow-acting poison. She wants to ensure I remain small. Dirty. Forgotten. She's trying to destroy my life, piece by piece, until I'm nothing but a memory of a girl everyone hated." I leaned forward, my voice losing its whisper and gaining a sharp, frantic edge.
"She wants me to be the villain in a story she's writing for the whole world to read."
Klea set the pen down. The silence that followed was heavy.
"Spinelia," she began, her voice still maintaining that terrifying gentleness.
"Based on everything you've told me—the feeling of being watched with hatred, the certainty that there is a grand design to destroy you, and the overwhelming fear—I'm looking at a few possibilities. We are likely dealing with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), but there are also significant signs of Paranoia."
Paranoia. The word felt like a cold stone in my stomach. It suggested that the monsters weren't under my bed or in Malina's house, but inside my own head.
"I'm not crazy, you just.. don't believe me." I whispered, the anger receding into a hollow ache.
"I didn't say that," Klea replied.
"I'm saying your brain is stuck in a state of high alert. It's exhausting to live like that. Which leads me to a very important question: In the midst of this pain, have you had thoughts of harming yourself?"
I looked at the floor, the tiles blurring as new tears formed.
"I'm.. not sure," I admitted, my voice cracking.
"But sometimes... I don't want to feel the pain anymore. It's tempting. The idea of just... stopping. But I'm also scared it's going to hurt, so I don't do it. I never do it."
Klea tilted her head.
"Are you tired of life, Spinelia? Do you find yourself wanting to die already?"
I let out a shaky breath. "Sometimes," I murmured.
"But I rarely think about it... mostly, I just want the noise to stop. I want things to be simple, and to not constantly look over my shoulder to see who is holding the knife."
Klea began to write again, her face still a mask of clinical empathy, leaving me alone in the silence.
"How long have you been thinking like this?" Klea asked forwardly— in her gentle voice, there's a hint of coldness.
"S- Since I was 11.. when I was in grade 7.." I murmured, this feels oddly suffocating than comforting. I feel like she's doubting my pain, feels like she thinks I'm lying.
Klea stopped writing and looked at me with a profound, heavy silence. The air in the room felt thick, like I was breathing underwater.
"Based on your thoughts regarding the 'temptation' to escape the pain, and this overwhelming sense of being 'dirty' and 'small,' I'm adding Major Depressive Disorder to your diagnosis," Klea said, her voice steady.
"You are carrying a weight that no one is meant to carry alone, Spinelia."
I felt a ghost of a shiver. It was a lot of words—Paranoia, GAD, Depression. They felt like labels on a box I was being shoved into.
"I'm going to prescribe you some medication to help stabilize these feelings," she continued,
beginning to write on a prescription pad. "I want you to come back once a week. We need to see how the medication is working and monitor your safety. I'm also going to suggest a few therapists who specialize in trauma and grief. Medicine is only half the battle; you need to talk this out."
I took the slip of paper. My fingers felt numb. I don't remember the walk out, the bus ride, or the sound of my front door clicking shut.
When I arrived home, the house felt cavernous and cold. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the far wall. My expression was blank, my body a statue. I sat there for thirty minutes—maybe an hour—as the sun shifted and shadows stretched across the floor like reaching fingers.
Suddenly, a thought pierced through the numbness. Wait... does this mean my pain is finally valid?
For a second, I felt a spark of hope. The doctor believed me. But then, the paranoia—the loud, screaming voice in my head—clawed its way back. No... what if they think I'm faking it? What if the medication doesn't work and they think I'm just a liar looking for attention? Or maybe I really am saying random stuff.. I don't know anything anymore.
I froze, looking around my empty room. A frantic, dark energy began to pulse under my skin.
"I... I should show them I really am suffering," I whispered to the empty air. "How... how do i get worse? How do I show it to them so they can't deny it?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. If I get better, they'll think I was never sick. I have to stay in the dirt. I have to sink deeper. Then, the horror of my own thoughts hit me. "I don't like this thinking..."
The realization that I was plotting my own downfall just to be believed broke the final dam. I collapsed into myself, clutching my pillows as a jagged, ugly breakdown took hold, my cries echoing against the walls of the room that had become my cage.