I came up with this idea a few years ago thinking I could use it to get into a creative writing class and put it down because I just couldn’t get it to work. Cut to the actual class and we were given the assignment of writing a story entirely in dialogue. It’s since been edited and tweaked to (in my opinion) flow better but for the most part, this is what came of that assignment. It’s proof that sometimes we need a couple more years, and a few more experiences to write some of our ideas.

Overall, this piece is one I love. I’m happy with the creativity that went into it and the level of emotion I was able to pull into it. In some ways, it’s deeply personal, and in others its simply how I flexed my creative muscles to try something different.

I hope you enjoy it too!

Trigger Warnings

Therapy

Religion

Death and Suicide

Mental Health

“Why are you kneeling?” Dr. G asks.

            “Isn’t that customary? I’m new to this.”

            “I don’t care if you stand on one foot while patting your head and rubbing your belly. Just be comfortable,” he says.

            He gestures with his hand towards a plush chaise lounge. It’s white like this entire office, adding to the cloudlike atmosphere. He holds his pen between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for me to spill my guts so he can write it down.

            “Sit, that might prove to be a less awkward position for you,” a wave of his hand and the chaise lounge seems to rush toward me.

            “Thank you,” I say. I let my body sink deep into the cushions, allowing it to envelope me in its comfort.

            “Don’t thank me, you’re paying me.”

            “I am? How much is your rate?”

            “Eternity of faith sound too steep for you?” Dr. G raises an eyebrow at me.

            “No, I guess not,” Dr. G looks down at his notepad and starts to scribble. “Hey, what are you writing?” I ask, sitting up from my slouched position to see.

            “Just making notes,” he turns the paper up at the edge, cutting off my sight.

            “Aren’t you all knowing?” I ask.

            “Maybe when there were less of you. It’s a lot harder now.”

            His matter-of-fact tone stops me from questioning further.

            “What should I talk about?” I ask after a minute of his scribbling.

            “How about starting with what brought you to me,” Dr. G replies.

            I pause, unable to get the words out that will bring my current situation to a reality I’m not ready for.

            “I died,” I say quietly.

            “How did you die?” He asks, matching my volume.

            “I stopped breathing,” I force out.

            “How did you stop breathing?” He prompts further.

            “I suffocated,” I whisper.

            “How did you suffocate?” He pushes.

            “The rope around my neck was too tight,” I mouth after a beat of silence, my voice failing me.

            “You took your own life?” He asks gently, somehow still having understood me despite me never having spoken aloud.

            “I did,” I say, sitting up straighter and clearing my throat.

            “Why?”

            “It got too hard.”

            “Don’t you think that’s part of it?”

            “Don’t you think you should have made it easier on us?” I glare at Dr. G and he looks serenely back at me.

            “Lessons are part of life. They wouldn’t teach you anything if they were easy.”

            “Maybe so, but there’s nothing I can do now,” I slump back down into the cushions, feeling defeated.

            “How about we talk about what led you to do it,” He says.

            “I guess. There’s no point in my afterlife being as depressing as my living life. Probably should have done this when I was alive.”

            “Maybe, but let’s not dwell on that. You’re here now. Just talk about whatever feels right.”

            I sigh and go on.

            “I lost everything. Though I’m sure you knew that already. I had no family and the friends I did have stopped knowing how to talk to me when my depression first hit. Suddenly nobody knew how to handle me. They treated me like I was so fragile that it started making me feel like I was. So, I tiptoed around myself just as much as they tiptoed around me.”

            “There was more than that, what else happened?”

            I look down at my hands and remember the day my boss found me curled up at the front desk of the store. I snapped and went ballistic on a customer. I was barely functioning at that point and it had been the last straw. I blacked out and didn’t come to until my boss was gently shaking my shoulder.

            “I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I lost my job and it went completely downhill from there. I tried, I think. I tell myself I did. I applied to other jobs; I got some medication, but I didn’t like taking it,” I feel myself start to shake and the pressure of tears threatening to overflow makes me squeeze my eyes shut.

            When I’m confident the tears won’t come anymore, I open my eyes and continue, “One day I couldn’t take it anymore, so I kicked the bucket. Figuratively and literally.”

            “Do you think there’s anything that would have changed the outcome?” Dr. G asks quietly after a minute.

            “Someone caring. Anyone giving a shit would have really helped.”

            “You sound angry.”

            “I am angry. Why did no one give a shit? Why was I not worth the effort?”

            “Maybe—”

            I cut him off, “Why did I push everyone away?”

            “Did you—”

            “Why didn’t I let anyone in?”

            “Alexa,” Dr G cuts in, breaking my spiral of self-pity.

            “This doesn’t help me does it?” I ask.

            “It doesn’t typically help anyone to question your choices too much. I do want to know why you felt you needed to push people away?” He prompts.

            “I don’t know. I guess I never felt I deserved it. What did I ever have to offer anyone? I worked a crap job making crappier money. I wasn’t accomplishing anything, and that was so heavily tied to my worth that I lost who I was in the process of trying to do something with my life. I lost myself so completely that there was nothing for me to give. Any relationship I could have would be entirely one-sided.”

            “Here, take a tissue,” I hadn’t realised I was crying, the tears I had worked so hard to keep down, silently running down my cheeks.

            “Sorry, I don’t usually do this.”

            “Don’t apologise. I made tears possible for a reason. I’d be mad if you didn’t use them to feel a release,” Dr. G says sincerely.

            “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome. Go on when you’re ready,” he says.

            “I just felt worthless and useless,” I finally say after a long time of dabbing my eyes and sniffling. Dr. G sits patiently in front of me, letting me work through my words.

            “I didn’t think anyone would want to be burdened by me, because that’s what I was, a burden,” I finish. I’m slowly ripping the tissue to shreds in my hands. A nervous habit I seemingly took into the afterlife.

            “Do you still think that?” He asks,

            “No, I think–I think I was wrong. I think if I had let just one person in, I would have realised they loved me enough that I wasn’t a burden even in my darkest moments.”

            “I would have to agree with you.”

            Neither of us says anything further for what feels like a long time, allowing me to sit in my newfound realisations.

            “I don’t know what to do now…” I finally say, looking down at my clenched fists and feeling the shredded tendrils of the tissue in my palms.

            “What do you mean?” He asks.

            “I’m dead,” I say, refusing to look up and make eye contact.

            “Are you?”

            “My life is over,” I continue. If I didn’t look him in the eyes, I could pretend this was all a dream.

            “Is it?”

            “There’s nothing left for me.”

            I push back more tears, wanting desperately to not feel the hollowness in my chest.

            “Do you honestly believe that?”

            “How can’t I?” I ask, finally looking up at Dr. G incredulously.

            “Decide not to,” he says. He shrugs his shoulders as if this should all be obvious.

            “It can’t be that simple.”       

            “It rarely is but give it a shot anyways.”

            “How do I even begin to do that?” I ask after a deep breath.

            “Try telling yourself to wake up.”

            “What?” I must have misheard him.

            “Wake up.”

            “Wake up?” Wake up from what? I’m dead, there’s no waking in death. Death was the ultimate sleep.

            “Wake up, Alexa!”

            “Doctor, why do I feel like something is pushing on my chest?” I ask, putting a hand where my heart would have been beating while alive. I feel warmth radiating through to my palm.

            “Dr. G?” The white room of his office is empty when I look back up.        

            “Wake up, Alexa!” I hear faintly. A door has appeared a short distance from where I sit.

            “Is that you, Doc? You’re kind of freaking me out now,” I say. I get up from the comforting cushions and slowly walk towards the door.

            A voice faintly saying ‘clear’ and then, “Wake up!” I hear. The voice is louder this time as I continue to walk towards the door.

            “I don’t understand,” I reply.

            “Don’t give up, Alexa!” I hear clearly now that I’m standing in front of the door.

            “I already did, that’s why I’m here,” I say, my hand on the doorknob now.

            “Come on! Don’t die on me.”

            “Huh?” I ask as I swing the door open. There’s a blinding white light and then the feeling of familiar arms wrapped around me.