Three Things

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
A girl struggling with depression learns the meaning of happiness. AKA The story of an really annoying emo girl who becomes not so emo at the end.

Submitted: December 27, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 27, 2013



My mom thought that this place would be better for me. She promised that I would like it here. She said that I would make friends and feel happy and learn how to smile again.


My mom could lie for a living.


This whole place bothers me. The hospital hallways have these painted smiling faces on them and they just mock me every time I look at them. I suppose to a normal person, these faces would be pleasant and happy, something to make you feel a little better as the days go along, but I see them more as a sick horror that I have to face every time I leave my room. Those stupid, rotting, yellow walls close in on me as I pass by. Their crooked grins haunt me in my sleep.


The doctors took away my razors too. I didn't like that. None of them understood that my razors were my friends. None of them could understand that razors don't leave you when you're sad. That razors were there when no one else was and they were the only things I could depend on. I could care less about the scars. At least I wasn't alone.


Anyway, now, I'm here, waiting for Dr. Sullivan to come back and tell me how I'm wrong and how I shouldn't be "depressed" and that I'm a special person who doesn't deserve to die. Then when he leaves, I get to wait until he returns tomorrow and tells me the exact same thing.


I don't hate Sullivan or anything. I just hate putting up with his lies. I suppose he means well though. People are always saying that he is a really nice guy. Everyone in reception loves him and past patients like to visit occasionally and give him gifts. I guess I can't see it though. Because when I look at him, I only see a man faking his own happiness. I see that in myself sometimes too. But then I get too weak to even bother to pretend anymore, and then I guess I end up in places like this.




Sullivan gave me a homework assignment. He said I should write three things that I enjoy.






I guess writing them down is supposed to make me feel better. I'm not so sure it's working. I think I’ll try again tomorrow.




The color purple


Silence (Sometimes)


Sullivan wasn’t here today. He should have been here, but he wasn’t. Therefore, instead of meeting with him, I spoke to a new doctor today. This doctor’s name was Jennifer Linkin, but she insisted that I call her Jenny. I don’t like Jenny. Within the first few minutes, she asked me how I was doing and when I told her I was doing fine, she smiled, just like the yellow faces in the hallways and scribbled something in Sullivan’s notebook. I squirmed in my seat and waited for the hour to pass so I could run back into my room. When the timer rang, I didn’t stop to say goodbye.


When I’m making my way around to my room, I notice that one of the rooms next to reception is unlocked. I remember being brought in there and having all my personal items snatched away from me by some old guy, so I quickly make sure no one’s around to spot me and slip inside of to get my stuff back. There are boxes labeled with names of all the other patients on my level. I manage to locate the box with my name on it and set it in front of me. I work it open and look at the whole of my stolen possessions with a little bit of placidity. That calm feeling immediately breaks though because then, as if by horrible luck, I hear someone approaching the door. I know in that moment that I only have time to reach for one object. My hand swipes one of my razors up and tucks it inside of my pocket. In a panic, I shut the box and hide it under a table. Later that afternoon, the faces smile as if they know a secret.





The Truth

Self Control


I make a cut in my skin for each smile on the wall. I make a cut for each day Sullivan doesn’t show up. For every time I have to see Jenny and listen to her ask what’s wrong. I make a cut on my legs every time I lie and say nothing.


I cut a lot, and it’s getting hard to cover it up now.


(But it’s also getting hard to stop).




Pure Souls

Pure Bodies

Pure Minds

The food at this hospital is stupid. Everything looks so dark and inedible here; I have a tough time swallowing it down. I feel a twinge of guilt every time I try to take another bite and it angers me that I can’t eat like a normal person. It frustrates me that I have trouble keeping my hand steady when I grab for some more food.


Which is why I threw my fork across the room today.


And broke down crying afterwards.


A nurse brought me back up to my room and told me to get some rest. But I can’t fall asleep.


The faces are laughing.








Jenny is letting me stay at my house over the weekend. She said that the hospital is causing me too much stress. I’m not sure if her plan’s exactly legal, but for once, she’s actually right about something.


Being back home reminds me of childhood memories. When I was a kid, I would lie in the grass and look at all of the shapes that the clouds made as the wind carried them to the distance. Then at night, I would happily dream of those same clouds picking me up and carrying me with them wherever they went.


I wanted to look up at the clouds again today, but the sky was devoid of them. I guess they went on without me.


There’s an old photo of my dad and me staring right at me now. It’s from my seventh birthday party. I can tell because of the purple frosting smeared on my nose and the crown resting on my head. I’m sitting on top of my father and I’m giggling in his arms. His eyes look tired behind his glasses, and there are lines around his exhausted smile.


I wish I could go back to that day. I wish I could go back on his lap and tell him that I love him a million times over. Maybe then he wouldn’t have taken his own life and left Mom and I to fend for ourselves.


Maybe then I wouldn’t be crying right now.


(God, I miss him).




Being prepared

Licks on the hand

Paws on the ground


When I woke up this morning, my mom left a note for me in the kitchen.


Didn’t want to wake you. Breakfast is in the fridge. Eat up . Stay positive.

- Mom


PS: I’m working late, so I made you lunch and dinner too.

I didn’t feel like eating anything, so I heated up my breakfast and went down to the park and fed a stray dog. He had gray fur and brown eyes that glowed in the sunlight. I nicknamed him Loner and he munched through my bagel and eggs. He thanked me for the food by licking my hand. Then he was off. Searching for his next meal, I imagine.


I really hope he finds it. That would be nice.


After Loner scurried off, I got a call on my cellphone. It was my mom, telling me to pack up for tomorrow. She said the hospital was waiting for my safe return, and I should not disappoint.


So here I am, organizing my suitcase, readying myself to make the trip back to Hell.







I already miss home and I already feel like I'm suffocating again. Under all the check ups and notebook scribbles and drugs, I’m losing control.. The smiles make it worse.



Wow. Two months since I’ve written in this thing.


Not much to say today. I found you lying on the ground. I guess I threw you down there. Sorry about that. No hard feelings, right?




I finally saw Loner again. Jenny stormed down the hallway carrying a whimpering dog. She had hit it with her car as she was pulling in. She swears that she didn’t see him, but that doesn’t change anything. He’s dead and she killed him.


She promises me that she feels absolutely terrible about it. But how bad can you feel for someone you don’t know?


Anyways, she’s transferring to another hospital. And for some reason, I feel like that should make me happy, but it doesn’t. It just kind of feels empty.




In places like this, you end up thinking a lot. Sometimes out of sheer boredom, sometimes out of loneliness. There was this one quote I read somewhere, “I am not alone because lonliness is always with me.” I don’t know. It’s stupid, but you end up thinking about things like that.


You think about little things too. Like the time your dad made you laugh so hard you spat out your juice, but when you try to remember the joke, you seem to always mess up the punchline, and the whole thing escapes you, but you just remember being happy so maybe that’s okay.


I’m really sad right now, but that doesn’t change that I was happy then, so maybe.. maybe this is okay.




Sullivan’s back. He asked me why I stopped writing down the three things that I enjoy. I told him that I ran out of things, but that’s not really true. Still, I don’t know why I really stopped. I think I blamed it on the hospital. I guess I just decided that I couldn’t enjoy anything as long as I had to see the painted smiles everyday. But even those don’t bother me anymore.


He told me that I should try it again. So..


The full moon

Soft fur

Video games


(I’m so lame).


I once asked myself what the point of writing these things down in my journal was. And maybe the point is to just be happy, and to remember the things that make you happy, because how can something happy have no meaning? Even if it is just a memory in some old journal that almost nobody cares about.


Whoa. So many thoughts are rushing through my head right now, it’s making me a little sick.


I think I’m going to bed now.


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