Merry Ellie Extract 2- Letter To Mother

What A lot of feeble-minded NHS ‘Child Psychiatrists’ don’t understand is that people work in different ways, I am different then your standard dullard. As You Know, Mother, I attended Therapy Once, He sat there looking into my eyes with no emotion, no sign of care or sympathy for any of the persons in the room. He had a notepad in his wrinkly hands and was questionably shaking vigorously, although I do not know what he noted down, I could only imagine it was an art project. At the end of this insultingly short hell-ride, he came to a meaningless conclusion as if it was as simple as that. He told me to stand up for myself, he indirectly told me that I was incompetent and that I was weak. As we left the room, I kept a face of satisfaction, yet inside my heart cried to the therapist ‘You stupid bastard, you just killed me, you stupid fucking bastard, you just fucking killed me’.

I Never attended Therapy again, what I have just detailed should be evidence enough, Mother, that either The Government doesn’t care about young girls with no significance in themselves, or Therapy Isn’t for Me; Which defeats the purpose of Therapy entirely ‘After A Long Chat, Mr. Chapman, We Have Concluded That Therapy Isn’t for You’.

How About you create an open environment and let me pour my heart out onto you counter top, let me describe in great detail the hours I spent crying over The Popular Girls Instagram Page or whatever the website was (created by literally the worst men in existence). Crying and weeping, not because I’m Fat, not because I’m Ugly, not because I wear Glasses (that the mainstream media has turned into some sort of target for bullying) but because of their attention.

Because they joined the Women’s Rugby Team, because they do well in school, because they have a boyfriend, because they get attention. Because the Girls I am Describing are popular, it will be more fascinating to sell-out egotistical Therapists and Detestable Journalists if they commit/attempt suicide due to their twisted and fake view of depression.

That Is My Greatest Fear, that when I do it, No one will know my name. Children will still go to school, birds will still fly, busses will still speed down the road, yet I am lowered into the bleak, brown mud. Nothing of Note, Nothing at all.