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Therapy

By Alison

D/C: I own everything.

~*~*~

Today was a good day. It was happy and the sun shined on me. I spent time with my friends and family and life was great. And now I'm recording it all down in my journal so my therapist can see I'm improving and not make me write in it anymore.

Therapy. Screw therapy.

Who fucking needs it, anyway? Just the real nutcases. Not me. So the love of my life died.

And I never told her I loved her.

Like that's a good excuse to pay a shrink to listen to my life story and then give me a journal and expect me to "write any and every feeling you have."

Here's a feeling for you. I hate this.

When I say that, I mean more than just writing in the damn journal. Just living…I hate living. Not that I'm going to kill myself, I'm not that desperate and depressed to leave this world.

Or am I…

No, she wouldn't have wanted it. If she were here, she would stop me. She would hold me in her arms and tell me it was all right, all the time knowing it wasn't because she knew what I knew: we could never be together.

Screw this. This journal is hurting more than it's helping, because every time I write, I remember the reason why I have it, and her face fills my mind, and I can't take it for much longer before I break down crying.

Sure, call me a sissy for crying while I write in my diary. I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore. Only her. Until the day I die, whether that comes in a few hours because of the blood pouring from the freshly cut slits in my wrist, or if by some unfortunate accident someone finds me and I get real help and I get the miracle cure and die at a ripe old age.

I hope it's the first. I want to leave this world and join her in a place where we can finally be together. Forever.

Fuck therapy.

FIN

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