Lack of Serotonin (first page)

Part One

I stare at the raindrops on the other side of the glass racing each other to the windowsill. Dr. Prelovich tries to convince me that I should start writing a diary to release my inner emotions that I refuse to show anyone, including her. I know I don’t tell her much, and I can tell it bothers her. Even though she’s getting paid $180 an hour to do practically nothing with me twice a week, I think she’s irritated that she hasn’t successfully gotten through to me. Apparently she’s one of the best shrinks in Vancouver. I bet our sessions are hurting her ego.

The only reason I’m here is because my parents don’t know how to deal with me. I don’t mean I’m an uncontainable crazy party rebel - I’m not. The problem is I’m the exact opposite. I stay at home all day and have no friends. I’m not exaggerating here. I literally don’t have any friends. The few friendships I did have pretty much ended at the beginning of highschool, when my friends starting branching out to new groups of people, either becoming popular or getting into drugs with the scrub kids. Instead of being normal and choosing a clique, I didn’t make a choice. This left me alone, but I didn’t care all that much. This sounds horrible, but my friendships were never too high on my list of priorities. Our conversations were hollow and I always felt out of place, especially during parties and social gatherings.

For a long time I didn’t see a problem with being friendless. I’ve always been independent and enjoyed spending time alone reading or going to a coffee shop for an earl gray rather than having slumber parties or watching eye searing, overpriced 3D movies with people who are too dense to comprehend half of what’s going on. But after the first semester of freshman year I hadn’t made a single friend or kept in touch with an old one. My parents started asking why I never seemed to have plans or why so-and-so hadn’t been over in a long time. At the end of the school year I started feeling lonely. Alone and lonely don’t necessarily go hand in hand, but for me they eventually joined forces and left me depressed. That summer was when I had my first appointment with my therapist.

Sometimes I research different suicide options. I’m just curious which way would be the least painful and least ugly. Anything involving a knife would be much too painful; I don’t understand how anyone could stab their own belly or slice vertically down their inner forearms or slit their own pulsating throat. The very thought unsettles me, but I guess suicide itself is an unsettling thing. Hanging might not be so bad, unless your neck fails to break and you’re left wriggling in the air, strangled until you die. Drowning apparently leaves you looking hideous: a drowned person’s body is left swollen and bloated, and eyes popping out of their sockets is not uncommon. That doesn’t sound like the prettiest death.

Today I took Dr. Prelovich’s advice about writing down things I feel, but I created a blog instead of a diary, and I chose the url “lack-of-serotonin” because according to Dr. Prelovich, serotonin is the “happy” chemical in the brain, and it seems like I don’t have enough of it. I password protected my blog so I’m the only one who can view the posts. I haven’t posted anything yet, but I think I will start tomorrow.

July 16, 2012

I had a scary dream last night. I was on the top of a really high building, and I was standing with my toes only a couple inches from the edge. I looked out into the sky. It was so pretty. I watched the purpley pink and orange sunset for a minute then closed my eyes. I lifted my arms up like Cristo Redenter and just fell. I fly sometimes in dreams, but this time I didn’t. I just dropped, and the people who looked like ants up above grew bigger, and the street lines became dotted, and that’s all I remember. I wouldn’t call it a nightmare, because I wasn’t scared when I was in it. That’s why it scares me. I felt at peace, like everything was perfect and I was doing the right thing.