TW: mentions of depression, su*cide, and death
Xander

I'm actually disappointed when class ends. This semester, I've been taking a history practicum. So far it's been my most interesting course so I enjoy the times when I'm here. I'm a history major which is as easy as it sounds. Well, that's if you're good at remembering facts and dates that go alongside those facts. History has always been my favorite subject since I was in middle school so when I got to college, I decided to stick with what I knew best.

I don't really know how I'll use my degree once I graduate college though. There is a lot of jobs that I can get but I've kind of always wanted to become a professor. It's extremely fucking difficult to be one when you're younger though. That's ageism in America for you. Albeit, I've already had some practice in becoming a teacher. Whenever I'm able to, I substitute in elementary, middle, and high schools. Most of the time I just sit on my ass and take attendance, but there are some times —the best times for me— when kids will actually ask for help on their assignments.

Even though I'm better at history, I don't mind helping out with math or science. I like when people ask for my help. It weirdly makes me feel needed. Maybe that's just my deeper trauma though.

Anyway, I'd definitely consider working with students of any age if that professor dream doesn't happen. I like teaching in general, about anything. I just like the college setting better, so that's why I've considered being a professor more than anything else. I wait behind a couple of students to search for my test. We've taken three so far and I've gotten A's on all of them, but this one was the most challenging. I tap my foot impatiently and find my test at the end of the table. C+. I fucking knew it.

"What'd you get?" Kendra, a girl from my class, asks me. I show her my worksheet and she frowns. "You did better than me." She shows me hers and a fat, red D- is printed at the top of her paper. "It was hard, huh?" I tell her. She nods her head, "The writing question at the end were so difficult," she says. I don't even want to look at those yet. I'm guessing I did terrible on them since they took me the longest to do. I would've done them first if I knew they were there when I started the damn test.

"I agree." I sigh. "Are you going to the study group Tuesdays and Thursdays?" she asks. I shake my head. "Should I?" I question. She nods, "It's a bunch of students from all of the classes Professor Hoffman has so we all kinda work together and help each other out, it's helped me out a little more. I would've gotten a worse grade than this if I hadn't been attending the group," she explains to me.

We exit the lecture hall, "Yeah, fuck, I might need it. Time and place?" I ask. She pulls out her phone and taps on the screen for a couple of seconds before showing it to me. I pull out my phone and take a picture of hers. My memory is ass and I rather not forget. "Thanks, Ken." I smile. She nods, returning her usual, toothy grin. "See you later, Xan." I throw up a peace sign and make my way to my car.

My mom called me yesterday and told me she'd been worried about me so she reached out to a friend of hers that lives here and asked her if she knew any good therapists. Therapy. For me. It's the last thing I want to do, but I promised her. I don't like being that extra stress in her life. If I go to therapy, then maybe I'll release some of that stress from her.

In all honesty, I was actually considering asking my mom if I could start therapy when I was eighteen, but I didn't. We're not rich, more like middle class, so I didn't want her to be paying for something that we didn't know could help. Plus, my mom doesn't believe in that shit, so I'm shocked that she's even telling me to go now. I think it would've been more helpful three years ago than it would now. I guess it's never too late.

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I sit on a navy blue couch across a middle-aged man—Dr. Crest—with a notepad and pen in his hand. He told me my mom has told him a bit about my case, but he'd rather hear from me why I decided to come to therapy. I didn't decide shit, but I stay tight-lipped. Therapy is new to me obviously so I'm confused as to how much he wants me to share. I'm sure he'll tell me to shut the fuck up if I ramble right? Fuck it.

"Well, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety when I was eighteen," I say "ever since then, I've taken medication and stuff, but that's all. I don't really know how to deal with it. This is my first time actually getting help," I admit. I focus on his pen as he jots down something, anything I just told him. He lifts his glasses up his nose. "How did the depression start? Any specific reason?" I'm pretty sure he knows from my mom, but still wants me to tell him just like he said earlier. So I do.

"My pops passed away when I was eighteen. About two months after I left New York to come to Cali. Obviously, I was here and not there, so I couldn't say goodbye to him. My family's always been close, but my dad I had always bonded the most. We shared a similar interest in football, track, and other stuff." I clear my throat. It's been a while since I've talked about my dad out loud. It doesn't hurt any less.

"The death of your father lead to the decline in your mental health so what did you do after? Did you come home or stay in school? Don't be scared to share more details with me, Xander. I'm here to listen to you," he says. I nod my head a couple of times in understanding. "No. I stayed here in Oak Hill. I went back for the funeral and such, but I came back shortly after that. I thought being away from all of it would help me cope, but it really didn't. I mean it helped a little bit, but not completely. I noticed the change in my... feelings and shi-stuff. I told my mom about it and well they eventually told me it was depression," I explain.

He writes in his notepad again. I look down at it, but I can't see anything from this far. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I don't think it's appropriate to take it out. "It's something we do when we go through something as traumatic as losing someone whom we love. Some might cope by mourning the loss. By crying, staying in bed for multiple days at a time, but there's also the choice you took. Distracting yourself or at least trying to. None of them are right and wrong." He nods a couple of times. He says, "You said you never came to therapy, yes? It's usually recommended for spouses and even children to come to therapy after losing a loved one like a father so why didn't you?" he asks me.

I swallow the lump in my throat. It's not a sob or anything, just nerves, I guess. I seriously never thought I'd be talking about this with anyone other than my family. It's new. "I didn't think it would help much," I lie "I also didn't want to put my mom through all the trouble and money. We had already lost a lot with the funeral costs," I finish. He nods slowly, writing again. Dr. Crest looks back up at me, "What about now? Do you think it could help?" My leg hasn't stopped tapping against the floor since I've arrived. It's one of the many things I do because of my anxiety. It's been high since I arrived, my anxiety.

I nod, "I think so, yes," I say. "Okay," he starts "I just want you to know that anything you tell me will stay between the two of us. I understand your mother was the one that pushed this, but you are an adult, meaning she's not allowed to know anything at all unless you'd like to share with her, of course. You are my patient, not her," he says. I nod my head in understanding. I held back from saying anything more than what I usually tell my mom, just in case he would be telling her about our first meeting later on.

"So, tell me, Xander. How are you feeling? How've you been coping with the death of your father? Now like I said, I won't tell anyone about this so be honest. If you lie, there won't be much I can do to help you." He lifts his leg and rests his ankle on his thigh. He picks up his pen and stares at me as he waits for a reply. Maybe it will help? Maybe by finally sharing this with someone who doesn't know me, I'll feel better. Maybe this will actually help as I previously thought.

"I've been lying to my mom about taking my antidepressants. As much as I hate taking them during the football season, they help me stay..intact. But after football season, I stop taking them. I don't like how they make me feel and I've always been somewhat fine without them. I haven't taken them for a couple of weeks now since football came to an end, but this time around it's been different," I say.

He writes, looking up at me and down every now and then. "How so?" he asks, not scolding me. I don't think he could anyway, right?  "I guess this time around my mental health has been declining quicker than it usually does. I'm always in my head and my thoughts, they're more... suicidal than usual. This didn't happen last time. Yeah, it's always different than when I actually take them, but it's never been this bad." My voice sort of fades those last couple of words.

"If you keep taking them inconsistently like you're telling me you do, your symptoms tend to worsen. This could be happening this time around. I recommend taking them when needed, Xander. If you want, I'll take a look at them and then see if I can prescribe you different ones. We'll find one fit for you, so that you don't feel the way you explained you do when you take them," he tells me.

Fuck, I don't want to take them at all. I wish I could fucking be okay without them.

"Sure," I say, for mom's sake. He nods, jotting the information down again. "I think we should start you off by starting to take your medication again. Tell me, how have you been feeling lately since football ended?" he asks. I play with my fingers on my lap. He won't judge you, man. He can't. "Not great," I admit. "Like someone's slowly eating away at me or I'm getting closer to getting pushed off the edge. Since football has been over, I've had more free time and that's never helped me. It gives me more time to stay in my room, alone with myself and my fuc-messed up thoughts." I'm trying my best not to curse.

I don't know if I can or not, but I won't for the sake of being respectful to this man that I've known for about an hour. "We need to watch that." He puts a finger to his chin, writing quickly again.

I wish this could've been prevented completely. Me reaching this point, I mean. Since I was prescribed antidepressants, I never took them the way I was supposed to. I was more of a forgetful person back then, so they were taken inconsistently. Plus, the side effects were fucking horrible since I used to drink and party a lot. I still do, but I think I've gotten used to it now. Still, there's no changing my brain chemistry. I'm fucked in the head for life. There's nothing or no one who could change that. Well, maybe my dad, but that's not an option.

I just wish it could be different because there's nothing I need on days like this than a hug from my pops.