To the Help

"The more you tell them, the more they can help you."

Came from a fifteen-year-old girl with too much foundation and brown scars all the way up her wrists. She's now studying to be a psychologist.

She's fifteen and she knew more than me. At the time I was expecting to meet the counsellor I'd waited three years for.

You're a nice person, Help, and I think I can trust you. I want to trust you. I want to tell you everything, from the panic and depression and every half-decent moment in between, when there were some. You saw me with my shell on, the person with sparkly eyes and friends and decent to good grades, candidate for promotion, fairly sociable, quite reserved but otherwise all right.

Well, I don't lie. Nor do I self-pity, when I can help it. Generally speaking I am all those things. Maybe you noticed that I'm a bit different; I don't wear skirts or dresses, instead opting for trousers and shirts and ties and flat shoes. At any rate, it's not that important.

Help: do you know how to deal with a person like me? You say you see a lot of people with anxiety, but I don't think I really relate to any of them. I'm anxiety, plus one.

Help; sometimes when I have to wear a skirt I pretend that I'm a Scottish warrior in his kilt ready to banish the enemy from his bonnie homeland. And when I get those godawful cramps and I feel indescribably bad about myself I pretend I'm a soldier in a battle who got stabbed in the abdomen but he killed his assailant so he the only one who knows about the wound and he has to wait until the end of the fight to keep his men's morale up.

I want to tell you. I want to broach it. I don't know how, on that I'm completely stuck.

If I can tell you - I can tell the world. If only.

The End

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