White room with white walls, I’m sure this is destined to be my fate forever.  Sure there are the usual layers of family photos and the colored couches and these positive motives flying around the room but there is a general underlying message that they are trying to get across to you.  As if you didn’t feel bad enough already for coming in here in the first place, as if you haven’t spent the past few days, hours minutes trying to convince yourself I am normal.

            “Have you ever seen any visions?”

            “No.”

            “Have you ever talked with people who don’t exist?”

            “No.”

            “Have you ever heard voices or had any schizophrenic episodes?”

            “No.”

            “Do you do drugs or drink excessive alcohol?”

            “No.”

            “Do your mother and father have any history of mental illness or diseases?”

            “Mom’s family.”

            “So you’re father doesn’t have any mental diseases?”

            “No.”

            “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

            “Yes two younger brothers.”

            “Do they have any problems?”

            “No.”  That’s right, I’m the only insane one, the only one who’s really lost it, thanks for pointing it out to me.

            “Do you think yourself to be a god, have supernatural powers or control over others around you?”

            “No.”  This is hopeless; I’ve crossed the line of being normal.

            Then the real killer, “Has God ever talked to you?”
            “What?”

            “Have you ever talked with God?”

            “Yeah, I mean, I’m really close to God.”

            “No, that’s not what I mean, it is possible to have a close relationship with God and not…if you feel as if God has talked to you that means something else.”

            “Oh, no.”

            Have you ever talked with God?  I don’t know.  Is that a sign of pure craziness?  I’m sure of one thing that if I ever talked to God, I defiantly talked with God, I didn’t feel like I talked with God.

            “Have you ever had any euphoric moments?”

            “No?  Kind of…” Yes I have, does that mean I’m crazy?  No.    

         People wonder why so many people kill themselves every year.  What would drive someone to that point?  Why didn’t they get help?  Clearly anyone who asks this question has never been to a psychologist or psychiatrist.  Sure, at dinner parties they seem like interesting people who get to constantly interview weird lunatics, like myself, for example and such but if you ever had to go to one I’m sure you would hate psychiatrists too.  White room, white walls, I can hear them signing me up for the asylum already.  Ophelia’s sister I am.  Not strung this way because something terrible happened someone died, dysfunctional family and heaven knows this is not about a boy.  Just strung this way because this is how I’m strung.

         Here I am; white walls, white room because I have no choice.  I want happiness like nothing else in the world.   It’s something that comes to a lot of people naturally.  I look at all the homeless people on the street, the people without food without jobs, the people who actually live in families with people with alcohol addictions and beat them and I wonder, why?  The guilt sets in how could I feel so miserable all the time and still have so much?