The Doctor’s Appointment
“I don’t like to see such a high score on this,”
he says when he sees your
“thoughts that you would be better off
dead or hurting yourself in some way” score
at a 2, more than half of days,
even though you haven’t been feeling suicidal recently.
You placed your numbers with a purpose,
trying to prove to him
that you really need help
because the moments where you do think
you’re better off dead hurt
and you want to live
but it’s difficult to live inside grey everyday,
day in and day out.
Your escitalopram is white
like the walls of your old dorm,
10 mg down your throat everyday
keeps the greyness at bay.
When you studied abroad,
all the kids said they could see color in you.
They loved how colorful you were
with your bright yellow pants
with white polka dots scattered throughout
and green cardigan
that makes you feel like a
90 year old grandma on the days
you feel confident within yourself.
Every time they said that to you,
you could never understand why.
You couldn’t see what they saw in you
because your vision was clouded,
grey, musty, bleak,
a panic attack every time
you walked into a bathroom.
You always joked with your friend
about how it was a miracle you weren’t dead yet.
It’s a miracle you aren’t dead now.
The kids saw the color you’re just now starting to see inside you.
The yellow of the sun.
The blue of the sky.
The green of the leaves on the trees.
“I don’t like to see such a high score on this,” he says.
Neither do you.