They told me that I had suicidal tendencies because I was upset, heartbroken, angry, confused, sad, and lonely. They said that I wrote about death too much, yet they never once asked me what I thought or felt. They assumed my feelings just like everyone else.
I wore too much black so I must have been caught up in despair. It could not have had anything to do with the fact that I never cared much for other colors. My writing made them sad so something was wrong with me. It did not matter that I could string together words that brought tears to their eyes or their head to their knees. I worked and weaved my way through the river of emotion because no one else could be bothered to ask for one second.
They insisted that I see a counselor, to get the help I desperately needed, and that was the only thing they did right. They sent me to someone who finally asked what kind of chaos was running through my mind. And for the first time in ages, I felt heard and understood. I wasn’t suicidal, I just needed someone who was not afraid to listen.