Zero hours and zero minutes of sleep can play tricks on your brain. You start to believe that everyone is against you, even the people that are there assigned to help your delusional mind. The entire room is spinning and my eyes sting so bad, aching for rest. And no, I’m not drunk. I wish I was…
“Good morning, everyone.” Our therapist, Dr. Eric Levian, announces to the group. “It seems that we are a lively bunch today.”
I glance at my fellow compatriots, my fellow sick people. Deemed unfit to walk freely in the world because our mental illness is unmanageable. Perhaps thirty years ago, there would be feces on the floor, uncontrollable fits of anger and electroshock therapy. But this is 2019 and there are standards to be met.
Dr. Levian is very handsome. Like, extremely handsome. He has these ocean blue eyes that pierce your soul and know when you are lying. He has an olive pale complexion that makes me think he’s from Greece or Italy. Definitely somewhere Mediterranean. He’s always wearing really nice blazers with a pair of jeans. I really like how professional he looks while looking comfortable.
“I’m really happy today, Dr. Levian!”
Suzanne, the cute blonde with the chronic lying problem and fascination with all things flammable, says. “I didn’t have any nightmares last night.”
“That’s great to hear, Suzy,” the doctor says with a charming grin. “Anyone else care to share?”
Nobody speaks up. The question lingers in the air like a noxious gas, infiltrating everyone’s lungs with discomfort and apprehension. A few seconds quickly transform into a full minute until I finally shoot my right arm up, offering myself as the sacrificial lamb.
“Aiden,” Doctor Levian peers at me from above his glasses. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. What do you have to share with us today?”
My left eyelid twitches and my sleep-deprived, exhausted brain creates a succinct, cohesive rant in one long, fluent sentence. Of course, I stay completely silent as everyone avidly stares at me. Some of the patients are so zonked out on benzos and SSRIs that you can see the drool spilling out of the corner of their mouths. Most people would take one glance at us and call us pathetic, lost, and dejected souls that will never know stability and only enjoy fleeting moments of happiness; I look at us and see a generation that has been lied to, manipulated, and abused in every way possible while simultaneously being told that we are whiny, entitled, and narcissistic snowflakes.
It’s not until I feel the tears streaming down my numb face that I realize with dismal, horrifying shock that I’ve been speaking out loud the entire time. Everyone is avidly staring at me with tears welling up in their eyes, eyes that reflect broken, whittled down souls that have been so shattered beyond repair.
“That was really beautiful,” Dr. Levian says in a tight, constricted voice, on the verge of tears. “Thank you for sharing your honesty and insight with us.”
Some people are sobbing now, and I feel like an asshole for making everyone sad and even cry. I’m about to apologize until I feel a strong pair of arms embrace me, comforting me despite the darkness threatening to loom over me just to consume me.
For just that moment, I feel complete solace and peace with myself. No self-hatred, no desire to self-destruct until all of my palpable pain is eviscerated. Just complete calm.
Aiden R. McKenna 