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Every three months, the experience of the doctor's office is like a ticking reminder of pseudo-crazy they made you believe. Sitting on scratchy paper lining, wondering why they're giving you the same survey because no matter what your answers will be, they will give you a pill.

"You sure you don't want to kill yourself?"

Yes.

That was the simple answer anyway, to a complex series of spiralling thoughts and memories that couldn't possibly be explained to a doctor sitting parallel to you in her swivel chair. Did I want to die? Sometimes. While the lingering possibility of putting an end it all will hover above me for the rest of my days, the probability of it comes in waves. It's the want to kill parts of myself, not the entire structure of my being. How can I explain that to a doctor?

It's the memories of a parents fist slamming into my spine.
It's the loneliness of a bedroom shoved into a corner and the fear of your roommates walking into open skin and broken dishes.
It's the secret desire that they will.
It's the school work that's violent to your free-spirited personality.
It's the constant panic revolved around preserving it.
It's the ringing in your ears.
The voices you don't wanna hear.
The thoughts you can't control.
The dreams that attack you while you're unconscious and helpless.
It's the selfish, reprehensible, piece of shit I really am.

(Ya doc, I do wanna fuckin kill myself. And if you sit across from me and try to convince me that you never thought of it either, I'd laugh in your fuckin face. I'm not a fuckin pill. I'm not your goddamn bonus on your paycheck. I'm a fuckin person who has been through a lot of shit and maybe I just don't fuckin feel like it anymore. K? So give me something else that's not a fuckin pill. How can you medicate me when the state of the world is against me? Attacking me. Luring me into it's cages and refusing to set me free? Don't you feel it? Have you been desentized like the rest of the world? The rape? The tourture? The murder? The sorrow and shame and sheer agony? Has the white walls and sanitized smell of this place blinded you?)

That part, too.

But yet, I sign up for them every month. Every month. It's like, if I don't, then I failed. I pushed away my only chance at survival. The whirlwind of the what ifs and the coulds and the shoulds and the panic settle too far in my bones to ever turn back.

I don't want these pills anymore. I want God. I want God to kill the part of me that I can't kill myself because that means actual death. I want God to open my skin for me because when I do it it results in bloody paper towels hidden underneath my bed. I want God to get me wasted, and fall so deeply in drunken love for Him. I want Him to see everything. Everything. I want Him to hold me and pray over me always.

It's the one two three of when it's gonna happen. Is it happening now?