There are things in life you expect to happen. You go to school. Graduate then possibly go to college. You hit your twenties and use it as a time to party. Get drunk a few times, find someone to settle down with. Maybe have a family. That's what your parents want, right? For you to enjoy life. Live it like everyday is your last.

For some people, that came easy. Because they grew up in a good home. Lived off the riches of their parents and acted like they would eventually, too.

Then there are the things you don't want to happen, but could or will happen anyways. Your parents divorce, your childhood pet dies. Your friends leave you or they die, too. Life isn't always going to give you a basket of rainbows and sweets. Sometimes, it will give you a trash bin full of absolute fucking dog shit.

And that's what life handed me. Dog shit.

I grew up in a home like a lot of people. I didn't have an apple pie life. Parents divorced when I was six, and my mom took full custody of me. I never saw my dad after my seventh birthday. Never got a Christmas card, or a chocolate bunny for Easter. Just an empty spot where a father figure should be.

My mom loves me, I know that. But what I could never understand growing up was why she left my dad. I thought, at one point, he loved me, too. But as some people turn out, he was just there. Existing as my parent, but never my father. A man that I thought once loved me turned his back the moment those papers were finalized.

Things come and go, thats how life works. People come. Sometimes they stay. Sometimes they throw a grenade in your face and expect you to sit there, waiting for it to detonate and leave you to stitch yourself back up.

At first, I blamed myself for my dad leaving. Mom would always say it wasn't my fault, but of course I was young and didn't believe her. Over the years, I grew to hate my dad for leaving us in the dirt and run off with the skank he cheated on my mom with. And then, I was okay.

For a while.

I found ways to get things I shouldn't have at a young age. Weed, alcohol. Opioids. Using it as a way to cope wasn't the smartest decision.

"Maybe that's why I'm talking to you right now." I said, looking up at my therapist, who just stared back at me. She looked down at her notes, which were probably scribbled in a handwriting I'd never learn to read.

"You've told me a lot about your background here, Kathryn." Dr. Kortez wasn't the best therapist out of the many I had. But, she seemed to be helping... For the most part.

"Well, you are my therapist." I smiled softly at Dr. Kortez, who returned the gesture. She hummed, placing her glasses back on the bridge of her nose.

"It says here that you were recently diagnosed with Cirrhosis. I'm terribly sorry." She spoke softly, giving me that look everyone did when I told them. Mournful. Like they were already acting like I was dead.

I looked down at my hands, nodding. "Yeah. Um... I don't really like talking about that." I leaned into the leather seat every therapist seemed to have. The ones with giant cushions that felt as if they were going to swallow you whole.

"I understand that much. But it does help talking about it." A car horn blared outside, catching my attention for the moment before turning back to Dr. Kortez.

"I wasn't given the best life. Sure, I... I should be grateful enough to finance my medical bills well enough... But I was only given a few months left." I tried to smile. Act like it was all going to be okay, that maybe the disease would miraculously cure itself overnight. But when has a miracle ever really occurred?

Dr. Kortez set her tablet down on her desk, swiveling her chair back over to it. She typed something into her computer, eyeing new every few seconds.

"I think we should up your dosage in Fluoxetine. Does that sound alright?" She asked, looking down at me through her glasses. I shook my head, clearing my throat and started to shove my phone bag in my purse.

"No uhm... I think I'm going to take myself off of it, actually. I just don't see a use for it anymore." Dr. Kortez frowned, tilting her head in confusion.

"So... You're saying you're fine? You don't have anymore symptoms of depression?" I chuckled, swiping a tear that was close to falling down my cheek.

"Of course I still have symptoms. Only reason I rescheduled was to cancel all of my medication. If I'm going to be dead soon there's no point in it." Dr. Kortez gave me that look again.

"Miss Louis... I understand that what you're going through is extremely traumatic. But these depressive episodes you keep falling into..." She trailed off, placing her hands in her lap as she looked at me. "As your therapist, I do recommend you stay on your medication."

"And as my friend?" I asked quietly. She stayed silent, and I nodded, standing up. "I appreciate your concern, Dr. Kortez... But really— I think this is going to be our last meeting together." Dr. Kortez watched as I walked out of her office, the shutting with a loud thud.

Nothing would help at this point. No medication was strong enough to help me with what I was going through. No therapist could save me from my own downfall.

As I walked down to the front desk, I couldn't help but think of the older memories I had made in the past. Before being diagnosed. Before I considered myself a lost cause. The smiles that had been on my face when they were supposed to be. Not when they were forced to be.

Memories of the friends I had made myself loose in the last year so they wouldn't have to watch me decline until a corpse. Days when I would regret losing them, others when I believed it was the right decision.

And today, I think it was the only choice I could make.