*warning: there is talk of suicide in this chapter*
EPILOGUE
“I don’t understand how people find joy in it,” Charlotte, a sixteen-year-old patient of mine, says. She’s sitting on the white beanbag in front of me, hugging a purple pillow to her chest and subconsciously taking a tissue from out of the box beside her. “Constantly bullying me. I mean, I know I have a weight problem. I don’t need them constantly harassing me everyday telling me that I am fat.” She sniffles, and rubs her red nose with the tissue in her hand.
I look at her sadly, wanting to cry myself at her struggle. I jut nod and let her talk as much as she needs to. “I wake up every morning and I’m afraid to go class!” She exclaims, shaking her head, “I walk to my locker and all I hear are names. I go to my class and the teachers don’t even help me.” She drops her head in her hands, “You have to understand why I hate to eat around people. I eat something healthy and all they say is, ‘What are you trying to get at? Eating salads didn’t get you to that weight.’ And then when I eat something not healthy they say, ‘Well that’s exactly why you got to that size.’ I hate it.” She cries.
Her breaths are ragged and uneven and she looks up at me with red eyes and blotchy cheeks, “Dr. Styles, please help me.” She sobs, “What do I need to do.”
I slowly get up from the spot on the big beanbag I was sitting in. I realized soon enough when I took the job here that teenagers feel much more comfortable in cooler environments like my ‘office’ where there’s posters of vintage bands and pictures of big cities lining the walls instead of degrees and paintings of bushes. Most kids feel more comfortable relaxing in a comfy beanbag rather than lying down and getting interviewed and to be honest, I’d do just about anything to make these troubled teens feel more relaxed.
I sit down on the box next to her and sit the clipboard next to me on the floor, “You can just call me Violet if it makes you more comfortable.” I say and offer a small smile.
She nods, sniffling a bit more, “Okay, um, Violet.” She says.
I smile and slowly look at the wall in front of me, acting like this is more of a small conversation rather than a therapeutic session. “Do you have very many friends, Charlotte?” I ask.
She shakes her head, “One, maybe, but I don’t know if I can really call her my friend.” She says, “It’s so hard to make friends when all anyone ever does is laugh at you.”
“I understand.” I begin, but Charlotte violently shakes her head.
“No you don’t.” She sobs, “You can’t understand how it feels to be ridiculed anywhere you go. It’s not just at school, it’s anywhere I go, people stare and talk about me.”
I just stay calm and quiet. I understand that teenagers have lots of hormones and they say something one minute and then the complete opposite the next.
“No, I really do get it.” I say, and Charlotte turns to look up at me, “When I was in college, I had many problems in my life and I thought about suicide many times as well.” The thing is, nobody knows that I actually didn’t just think about suicide, but I can’t exactly tell everyone that I should be five years older than I actually am.
“My boyfriend was a total dick and sent out nude pictures of me to his friends, who sent it out to their friends, and so on.” Charlotte’s expression changes into something of surprise, and then understanding, and then pity.
“And I also had to pay rent and keep my grades up and I was definitely failing at both and I thought that I had no last resort except to just die.” I say, because I know exactly how Charlotte feels. I know how it feels when everything in your life comes crashing around you and you just can’t take it anymore. You just want to escape all the pain.
