I sat in the bland ass waiting room, coated in sterile beige so thick it sucked all the color and life right out of the place. Every tick of the clock hammered the point home: I was about to be officially sorted, diagnosed, inventoried, and probably wrapped up with a bow of “mental case” slapped on me. Fingers drumming a nervous beat on my knee—the most motion I’d made all day that didn’t involve self-loathing—I tried not to freak out too much while looking like I was trying really hard to be chill. No luck. The hospital decided now would be an appropriate to be pumping out Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes Cut me a f*****g break!
For the record, my father sent me here after I told him that the hallucinations had somehow gotten worse. Not just worse like a bad dream you wake up from sweating
