"What's the point denying when we all know we are lying to ourselves (and you can't keep that smile off your face)" – Streetlight Manifesto
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The therapist as Charlie so lovingly put it, sits across from her in a nice tan pants suit with white pinstripes. She just continues asking a random question here and there, and then jotting more answers down on her pad. Me, I just roll my eyes and stare at the white walls.
White is the epitome of all bland colors. While black absorbs everything, white sort of releases everything. Unfortunately, white and tan aren't good releasing colors, so to speak.
"So," the therapist says, leaning back in her office chair and staring at me, "Your dad said that your boyfriend broke up with you and left recently and you've been like a, what he called walking zombie, was the metaphor he used, I believe."
I shrugged, staring at my old messy converse, black, with doodles here and there, covered in mud. "It's been four months" I said through gritted teeth.
She nodded and jotted something down on her paper, then looked back up at me, "Usually most girls get over that sort of thing in a few weeks."
I shrugged and looked back to my shoes, the different permanent marker colors didn't mesh well with the typical beige carpet. I yawned, indifferent, and looked at my watch. Fifteen more minutes.
"Your dad also said you weren't reading, listening to music, or eating well at all. Those are all signs of severe depression." She says, tapping a white high heeled shoe on to the carpet twice, as if scolding me.
I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms, "So?"
She sighed, "If you loose too much weight we can admit you to the center in Port Angeles for anorexia."
I shrugged, "I'm not under weight for my height, I know."
She sighed again, and cocked an eyebrow, looking doubtful, "What size are you? Pants and shirts?"
I shrugged, "A zero in pants, and smalls in shirts, I think."
She sighed, "Isabella," she started.
I rolled my eyes, "Bella. Not Isabella."
She sighed again, "Right, Bella. A zero is practically a child's size. I believe a child could actually fit in zeros. Actually, I think my ten year old daughter could fit in zeros."
I shrugged, "Don't psychologists and psychotherapists have one of the highest suicide rate in the United States?"
She pushed her bangs out of her face and huffed, "Well, Bella," she stammered.
I rolled my eyes, "Guess so. Time's up. See you next week."
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