I always had a feeling that I’d end up in psych ward, never knew what for though, but I always thought I’d have a better reason than I do now. Long story short: I tried to kill myself.
. . .
The fall of my seventeenth year I came to terms with the fact that I was depressed, horribly, nightmarishly, insufferably depressed. This was not a new revelation be any means, simply a somewhat new acceptance. I accepted the fact that I had very few friends that I felt close to, rarely went out and if I did I was alone, spent hours upon hours surfing through the “sad”, “messed up”, and “depressed” tags on Tumblr, slept in irregular intervals that ranged from eighteen hours a day to not at all, and ate very little, and what I did eat I usually wouldn’t allow to stay down. I’ll leave that to the imagination.
Until my “incident” (as my shrink enjoys calling it) my parents knew very little of my situation. They only knew that I felt unhappy quite often, ate very little and infrequently, and had very few friends. I vowed to keep them unaware, hopelessly unaware of just how messed up their seemingly perfect son was. I don’t blame them, it’s by no means a cheerful subject, quite the opposite obviously. Whenever you picture a depressed teenager it’s most always a white, slightly emaciated girl in the prime of her teenage years, pale face, the occasional scars decorating her wrists, etc. It’s just not something that black guys deal with right? Wrong.
Before the beginning of last summer my parents told me that they were sending me to a therapist. For some reason, unknown to me or them, I found this comical. Imagining myself laying on a faux leather couch in a room covered in wall to wall bookshelves, divulging my most private secrets to a man with a trimmed pedo beard, thick black rimmed glasses, and a large legal pad for which he would vigorously scrawl down every word that dripped from my lips, making some connection as to why he has already concluded that I’m crazy. Imagining him only breaking our long conversation to ask “And why do you think that is?” or “How does that make you feel?” I laughed at the thought and dismissed my birth givers. A week later I found myself sitting in the passengers seat of my mothers SUV in the parking lot of the therapist’s office building. Silent.
“What are you thinking about?” my mothers said breaking the awkward silence that had settled between us.
“I guess we’re going to find out.” I said shifting in my seat not looking at her.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” she said sounding uncomfortable.
“No.” I said, “I’ll just call you when it’s over.”
“Maybe I should just sit out here then.” she said fiddling with the zipper pull on her navy blue jacket.
sigh “Do what you want, I’ll see you later.” I huffed opening the car door to get out.
My breath make small, opaque clouds as I breathed in the crisp Autumn air and my cheeks grew chilled, but I walked slowly towards the double glass doors that led into the building....