I had a nice family. Mother and Father, and then me. No siblings, so I was a spoiled only child. Believe me, I enjoyed it more than anything. Most of the time I got whatever I wanted, but my dad was less of a push over. I really didn't have that many problems, I just.. didn't want to live. Also I had extreme anger issues that got really hard to deal with sometimes. I still have holes in my walls from punching, and throwing things. Nice huh?
The only thing that was weird or unusual about our family was that my dad has blond hair, and my mother has a light brown. My hair is black. So black that its almost blue. Where did that come from? Apparently from an ancestor named Yaoma. Apparently I looked exactly like her.
So when we got to the cream and brown colored house, my mother eased onto the brakes and eased into the cement driveway and from there into the garage. Closing the garage door behind us, she unlocked the house and strode in. Her heels clicked angrily on the white tile of the kitchen and she screamed.
"Ernie! We have to find another damn psychiatrist. This one said the same damn thing as the last twelve!" She huffed, and then started pacing. My dad stumbled out of the bathroom holding my mom's pink robe around him. He must have grabbed it in his flurry to come scream with my mom and start looking through phone books. I sighed heavily and walked towards my room. They started screaming before the door shut.
They never fought, and if they did they got over it quickly, laughing about how stupid they were being. They just screamed, or projected their voices, whenever they were angry. Which I was used to. I plugged in my headphones to my blue ipod nano and proceeded to listen to Fiction Plane. I looked around my room, it was white and black striped, kind of like piano keys. Pictures of music notes and artists, and a large picture of Marilyn Monroe hung on the wall. My electric piano sat along the wall next to my guitars.
My bed was large and sort of vintage looking with black and white sheets and comforters and a lacy bed skirt.
I loved this room, almost as much as I hated my therapists.
My door swung open, and my mom strutted in, looking proud of herself and smiling.
"There is another therapist near by here, that should be fifty times better. Alright? We don't even have to move this time!" She said, clasping her hands together and smiling. I nodded and smiled back at her. The only thing that all of us Jules had in common was our eyes. They were all the same hazel grey color.
She trotted back out the door and closed it behind her.
I began playing with my shoelaces. Its one of those things that just calms me down.
Then the thoughts came back. I imagined myself, a rope clinging tightly to my neck, my head cocked sideways awkwardly, blood pouring from my mouth. I could feel it, dripping along my body. It was getting on the carpet.
I screamed, I tore the bedsheets off of my mattress and tried wiping up the mess. It was no longer there. The feeling of blood on my skin had disappeared.
I felt anger start tumbling through my veins, and felt my face go red. I got up and started ripping my bed sheets, tearing the comforter, I knocked over my lamp and started punching the floor. I screamed until my neck felt like it was going to burst.
When the random anger had subsided, I sat down in my mess and cried. My mother opened the door slowly, just like she always did and looked around my room sadly. She came and sat beside me, and wrapped her arms around me, kissing my cheeks and telling me that the new therapist would help.
The same thing she said about the last thirteen.
