One

                                    

                                          
edited (10.17.16 & 6.18.17)
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No one understood. No one would ever understand. Why would one start using drugs if they didn't have a valid enough reason to escape reality? Why would one start using drugs if they knew there was a chance of addiction?
            Tristan sat in his psychologist's office, twiddling his thumbs. He was too uncomfortable to make eye contact with the woman at this point. Even though she only knew the little bits of himself that he chose to feed her, that was only the tip of the iceberg; half of the information Tristan gave her consisted of complete bullshit. Nevertheless, she hadn't caught on to the game he was playing with her. The psychologist truly thought she was beginning to understand the puzzle of Tristan's mind, but she only knew the "secrets" he felt like sharing.
            Jessica, his psychologist, always caked on too much makeup. He wanted to reach over, wipe a wet tissue across her face, and see her makeup smear. He wondered what her reaction would be. He wished she would be as embarrassed as he was right now.
            "Tristan," Jessica stated. "I need to ask you a few questions about your substance abuse disorder."
            Tristan mumbled a response sounding something like, "alright."
            "Why did you start crushing pills?"
            Tristan picked at his nails as he thought to himself. The first time he had ever crushed a pill, it was more of an experiment than anything else. After a few weeks of crushing pills daily, it became a habit; pretend to take his prescription drug in front of his parents, go to school, get home, crush the pill, and finally, rail it.
            "To escape." The answer Tristan gave her was utter bullshit - he didn't know a truthful answer to the question, so he gave her a stereotypical reply. He still wasn't meeting Jessica's gaze. She was analyzing his every word, every movement he made, every place he looked. She could probably tell he was lying to her face.
            "Why do you need to escape?"
            From everyone else's eyes, Tristan had the perfect life. His parents were still together, his family loved him, and he got good grades. Maybe he needed to escape from reality. Why did he need to escape from reality? He needed to escape because he was tired of the guilt and hatred he felt towards himself - it felt like it was eating him alive. Why did he feel guilty and hate himself? Why was he depressed? He had a great life. This was an endless circle of too many questions Tristan didn't have enough answers for.
            "You wouldn't understand," he mumbled quietly. Gaining more confidence, he stood up out of his chair, yelling, "You wouldn't understand! No one understands! I try to explain, but no one listens. I have been seeing you for over six months, and if you actually gave a shit about my mental health, I'd be getting better by now!"
            He knew he was being an asshole, but he was tired of feeling this way. He was tired of pretending to get better. He was tired of hiding his true emotions. Tristan walked out of the office and entered the waiting room where his mother and grandmother were sitting.
            Tristan jogged out of the waiting room; he couldn't stand his parents and his grandparents. They didn't let him crush his pills. Since they didn't want him to crush his pills, they wanted him to be miserable. The pills were the only thing that distracted him, and they knew that. They wanted him to feel like shit every single fucking day. Once he was outside of the building, he pulled a cigarette out of his pack and sat on the bench. He lit the cigarette and huffed out of frustration. He needed to punch something. He wanted his knuckles to bleed and bruise. He wanted pain. Everything pissed him off.
            Tristan went back to the waiting room once he finished his cigarette. In the waiting room, his psychologist, his mother, and his grandmother were talking in hushed voices.
            Jessica, in her annoying voice that she always fucking used, said, "Sweetie, are you okay?"
            Tristan was beyond pissed at everyone in the room. He lied back down on the couch and pulled out his phone, not answering his psychologist. Now was the time he could be silent.
            "Sweetie, we're going to go talk in my office, okay?" Tristan was stubborn and continued to keep his mouth shut. In his opinion, Jessica was trying to piss him off. All the "sweeties" and "okays" just made him angrier.
            After talking in her office for a short amount of time, they all came back to the waiting room. Then, Jessica asked Tristan questions.
            "I want to make them miserable like they make me," he stated calmly. "Right now, I'm fantasizing about strangling them." He stared at his phone and opened an app.
            "What can we do to help, besides give you Focalin?" She asked.
            "Give me a knife or Tylenol."
            "Tristan, you know that we could just call an ambulance to pick you up."
            While turning around to look at the three adults, he yelled, "I'm going to kill myself before I go back there!" The first time Tristan was hospitalized didn't help his mental state at all; if anything, it made him worse.
            Jessica smirked at Tristan's reaction. At this point, he was starting to think she got off when she caused him pain. "Well, that's where people go when they threaten to hurt others or themselves."
            Jessica continued to interrogate Tristan in the waiting room with his mother and grandmother within earshot. The door to the waiting room opened; in came his father and his grandfather.
            "Sweetie," Jessica said in that soft tone of voice that annoyed the hell out of Tristan, "You're going to be going home with your father and grandfather, since we can't trust you to be in the car with your mother and grandmother. Is that okay?"
            Tristan firmly stated, "I'm not moving until I get my Focalin."
            Tristan's father jumped head-first into the conversation. "You're not getting Focalin."
            "Then I'm staying." No one understood why Tristan wanted the drugs so bad. Tristan rubbed his eyes and continued, "You don't understand. None of you understand."
            "Then make us understand, sweetie," Jessica pleaded.
            "Alright," Tristan started. "I snort the Focalin because it distracts me. I hate myself every second of every day. When I look in the mirror, all I see is fat that I can't lose. I'm miserable. I have nothing going for me. I have no friends. The Focalin got rid of my social anxiety, made me happy, and made me forget how much I hate every inch of myself." He started crying somewhere in the middle of his short speech. Were they even listening to him?
            Even though Tristan had made another attempt to verbalize his thoughts, it hadn't made a difference. None of the people in the room understood. They tried and failed; it wasn't possible for them to ever understand.
Eventually, Tristan's family got him to get up from the couch because of their threat - if he didn't get up, he was going to the hospital. He cried throughout the duration of the car ride home.
    Once he was inside, Tristan locked himself in his room, telling them he wouldn't leave until his parents and grandparents let him crush and snort his Focalin. He barricaded his door, then leaned against a wall and cried. He screamed out of frustration and punched his wall until there were two holes. Tristan slowly slid down the wall until he collapsed on the floor, completely drained of energy. He felt defeated.
    Tristan thought about what it would be like to go to a rehabilitation facility. They'd probably make his life a living hell. He would end up manipulating the staff and cheating the system. It would be just like the time he overdosed and the time he went to a psychiatric ward.