Once I again I find myself in this waiting room and it’s no less depressing today than it is any other day. The lack of colors makes me feel as though I’m going blind, the television muted and playing some programmed nonsense about the services offered at this clinic. All I want to do is get my medicine and get on with my life. Today was supposed to be Our Day and here we are, starting it off in this room that smells like madness. I pray that no one comes out of the bathroom with his pants around his thighs like usually happens when I’m here. I have the Mister with me today and I worry that if he sees something like this he will realize just how bad my insides have become, how bad they’ve always been. I don’t want him to see me like this. Today there is no young, Gothic girl sat with her mother, picking at her dark nail polish, her braided bracelets spread up her arm, her scene girl haircut a dark purple, her black eyeliner thick and alluring and I’m thankful for this. This is the type of girl he goes for and I would feel threatened. We watched a Harry Potter movie together once and he made a comment about how he thought Helena Bonham Carter was beautiful because he likes those Gothic types and it hurt me somewhere deep inside, a place that I didn’t think could hurt any more than it has been hurt in the past. I tucked this away in that deep, dark place that I keep hidden all of my hurt and made a note to overthink it at a later time. That’s what I do most magnificently, overthink things. Sitting next to me he texts me and tells me that it smells bad in this waiting room and I inhale a deep, long breath. I don’t smell anything out of the ordinary, certainly nothing unpleasant and I feel a bit sad because I know he is smelling a type of crazy that is different from his own, my type of crazy. I text him back as much and he looks over at me with that look he has reserved for when he needs to tell me not to be ridiculous. I think about all of the times he has told me that we are so good together because our individual types of crazy are compatible but sitting here in this room, I can’t help but wonder if he still feels this way in this moment. I think about all of the times he tells me that one day when we’re old and gray he’ll reach over and poke me in the cheek and tell me “I told you so,” told me we would make it and I wonder if seeing me in this waiting room has changed this at all. It’s a ridiculous line of thoughts at this point, mostly because I haven’t taken my medicine in a week, but they are valid in my mind nonetheless. I tell myself that in the end, we are all crazy and hoping that we find someone who can understand and accept our own individual type. I tell myself I am thankful that I have found someone who understands mine. This is what I tell myself.
Write On 