I remember the overwhelming desire, the lust that filled my heart as I looked ahead of me and drove. My eyes were flooded with tears, their lids squeezing tightly over them, shielding every bit of light that dared enter my line of vision. I heard the engine of my old and slightly banged-up black car roar, which confirmed that I was indeed launching into an outrageous speed. This was it. This was what I wanted for so long.
That little stunt took place about a week ago; rather than sending me straight to the grave, it landed me in a hospital, where I was monitored 24/7 so the doctors would be sure that I wouldn't try anything dangerous. I was in a secluded room with the burden of a broken wrist and about a dozen office supplies in my forehead.
Now, I sat in the familiar office that belonged to Doctor Payne, my newest psychologist. Doctor Payne...what a name for a doctor that was supposed to offer comfort.
"So..." Doctor Payne tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear as she read through my records, "can you tell me why exactly you rammed your car into a tree?"
"You nearly died-on purpose-and you can't tell me why?"
I noticed she was wearing a long sleeved blazer in late June, "what's with the extra layer?"
She open her mouth to speak when I cut her off.
"Wait, don't tell me. Hmm...I got it. You're one of those professionals that are secretly bad asses: you have quite the collection of tattoos."
"Emmalyn, this is about you. You can tell me anything, I just want to help."
"Why don't you check my records? The answers you want so desperately are in print."
"All those are telling me is that you have an undiagnosed mental illness and that you have been placed into a facility three times, beginning at age twelve. Tell me more, I can keep a secret."
I hesitated, "no facility placements? You'll lose my trust if you send me away."
"You have my word."
I took a deep breath, "would you believe me if I told you I'm destined to die young?"
The doctor shook her head, "no."
"You're a toughie," I tried to lighten the situation, but that obviously didn't work, "I just...there's nothing for me to live for."
She didn't write anything down, "nothing?"
"Emmalyn, I think I know exactly what you need."
"Bring on the antidepressants."
"I have an idea that doesn't involve meds."
"But it's required for my mental state."
"Well, of course I'm going to write you a prescription, but that's only because I have to."
"What's the plan, Doc?"
"I want you to buy yourself a notebook and just, you know, explore life."
"I don't understand."
"I want you to go places, meet people, find something to live for and write it down."
"And if I don't find anything?" I challenged.
"Then that would be your fault. There's always something to live for. Always, Emmalyn."
So that was that. I found myself walking a total of nine blocks to find a cheap notebook. It wasn't recommended that I go anywhere alone; I might walk into traffic, look to substances, mutilate myself, the list goes on and on. I was a big girl who had just gotten the wind beat out of her by a tree, I wasn't in the mood for death attempts.
I stepped into the air conditioned store and braced myself; this was a small town and no one had seen the mayor's daughter since before the suicide thing. I always had to face the fact that's I was in this community's public eye.
Gale, the elderly cashier, eyed my nasty head wound.
"Yes, it still hurts like a bitch," I handed her my money, "in case you were wondering."
She nodded awkwardly. I usually got some bad publicity for my colorful language, especially since Dad was running for Senate.
Now was the beginning of what I believed was going to be a serious failure: finding something decent to live for. Why did I believe it to be so difficult? Because that's what my life was, pathetic and empty Doctor Payne convinced herself that she knew exactly what she was doing, but did she really?
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