[ WP ] Everyone except for your psychiatrist thinks you 're crazy . You lie down to have another productive session with Doctor Marshmallow McSnugglesworth PsyD .

I remember the window being open during my last therapy session. 
 
 A late September breeze tousled the curtains, as if the wind were self-aware and knew the power it held, yet opted to control itself for my sake. I have a history of anthropomorphizing objects and powers unseen – it ’ s why I never allowed myself to get too close to God. I couldn ’ t bear the shame. I knew He knew what I knew, and I haven ’ t been a very good person throughout my lifetime. 
 
 “ I ’ m tired of stressing everyone out, ” I confided. “ My family ’ s worried about me, and I don ’ t have friends anymore. ” Rolling over to face away from my therapist, I sighed. “ You already know about the friend part. ” I ’ d brought my last friend – my best friend – to my previous therapy session. I wanted to explain to her that it wasn ’ t my fault I urinated on her parents ’ wedding picture after drinking all of her dad ’ s good whiskey. My parents blamed their divorce on me. It was her parents ’ fault for being married. I didn ’ t want them to hurt her. I was protecting her. She didn ’ t understand. I think she blocked my number. 
 
 The silence was comforting. That ’ s one thing about my doctor: he knows I don ’ t like to be advised. I don ’ t want to create a plan or modify my behavior. I have a right to be the way I am because of the hand I ’ ve been dealt, and no one has understood that until now. People have a right to cope. 
 
 Other doctors tried to give me pills to ‘ normalize ’ my mood swings. I don ’ t like taking them. The last time I took my venlafaxine and amitriptyline, I twisted up a Pepsi can and carved stick figures into my left forearm. I ’ m so glad I changed doctors. The therapist I have now would never make me take pills. Pills are the establishment ’ s way of making you feel good about all the bad in the world, and I don ’ t think they work on me. I never feel good when I take them. 
 
 “ I don ’ t think I ’ m meant for this lifetime, ” I went on. “ I think it ’ s a mistake. I had to have been put here by mistake. Don ’ t you agree? ” 
 
 Dr. Marshmallow McSnugglesworth didn ’ t reply. I love his resolve when it comes to making me work through my own shit. His downy face was forever impartial; those glass eyes never indicated that I should change. I felt the urge to run my fingers over his floppy ears like I did when I was a kid, but I signed a contract that forbade physical contact about six months ago. I didn ’ t want him to lose his license because I was being childish. 
 
 “ The window ’ s open, ” I mentioned. “ Think I could survive the drop? ” 
 
 No response. Dr. Mcsnugglesworth maintained his professional distance, as always. 
 
 “ I mean, it would be the perfect way to test out whether or not I ’ m supposed to be here. If I survive, I am. If I ’ m not, well… ” 
 
 I didn ’ t give my therapist a chance to answer. He ’ s always felt that my choices were mine alone, even though other people made me who I am. Some might think that ’ s contradictory, but life ’ s a lot more complicated than those people make it out to be. 
 
 I climbed atop the sill and felt that strong breeze against my face, still holding back. 
 
 “ I can ’ t hold back, ” I told Dr. McSnugglesworth. “ You don ’ t even look like a real dog. ” 
 
 And I jumped. 
 
 Apparently, I ’ m supposed to be here. I have a new therapist now, and I have to take pills. They found new ones for me, though, and they don ’ t make me want to draw with my own blood. I usually just sit by the window, crosshatches casting shadows on my face when it ’ s sunny out. Sometimes, it ’ s all I ever want to do. And when the meds don ’ t work – if I eat something new or the moon is full – I still have my old therapist as a backup. My sister found a way to smuggle him in. And I can tell him anything. 

