Just One Yesterday

1

I never thought this would happen, but today my mother is taking me to the doctor.

She says I have depression and she wants to help me with it.

What was her first clue? Me shutting myself up, not wanting to interact with people? The scars the covered my wrist, legs, and stomach?

I take a deep breath. "Peter, come on. We're gonna be late!" I hear my mother yell. I hurry to the door. I grabbed my jacket and jumped in the car.

Mother followed behind, shaky and nervous.

She got in the car and put the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life.

Radiohead poured from the speakers.

"Maybe it's your music." Mother said. I sigh. "Creep is a good song." I say. She gave me a look. "I promise I'm alright."

"Your skin says otherwise."

"I promise. They are just gonna put me on medication."

"Maybe that's what you need. Sweetheart, I know this is hard, but I just want life to go back to when you were happy. Happy, like when you lost your first tooth. When you learned your first song on your bass."

"Mother, life isn't going to go back to how it was if I'm on medication. Happiness chooses the people that deserve it. They leave the rest to have artificial happiness."

"That's not a way of thinking, Pete."

"Well, how do you want me to think? At least I see the truth, unlike these other brainwashed teenagers that only care about sex and drinking. I can see the truth about this world, and it should be considered a good thing. I'm not going out and trying to get girls pregnant. I'm not going out drinking three cases of beer. I'm not going out smoking pot. Maybe not having a life and seeing how reality really is might be a good thing."

"Son, you have a gift. You have a way of words. You have a way to express yourself. I don't want to lose that."

We pull into the doctors office. I open the door slowly and walk inside.

"Hello, I set an appointment for Pete Wentz." The girl behind the counter smile at mother. "Yes, here you go." She handed her a clipboard.

"Thank you." Mother said. I stay quiet. She filled out everything and we went to take a seat.

Fifteen minuets later they call my name.

I walk to the room they put me in. "Hello, I'm Dr. Jackson." The girl said. Her short blond hair fell in her face. She pushed it back and grabbed my 'records' they had here ever since I was a child.

"So what brings you here today, Pete?" I look at mom, giving her a sign that it's her turn to talk.

"I think he might have depression." Mother said with hesitation in her words.

"What are his symptoms?" She asked. "All he does is stay in his room and blast music. He has scars covering his arms and legs. And he never eats."

She wrote something down. "Oh. That does sound like depression. Tell me, have you ever thought about or tried to commit suicide?" I turn my head.

"Do you want me to answer?" Mother asked. I nod my head.

"I found him on the bathroom floor last year next to an empty pill bottle. I got him to the hospital just in time." The doctor wrote that down.

"I see. What made you want to do that?" She asked. "Uhm, stress. I j-just want to f-fit in. It stresses me out." My lip quivered.

"This is why you need to be yourself." She gave me a sympathetic look. "Never be someone your not." She handed mother a piece of paper with the name of a pill on it.