The Happy Treatment

I forgot to mention, I’m writing this to you the night before I receive the Happy treatment. I must mention again, though, I know you’re not going to be happy reading this, but you deserve an explanation. You deserve more actually, but this is all I have the strength to provide you, and I’m sorry for that.

Throughout the last few days, my dad hasn’t talked to me, Risa is no help, and I can’t put all of this stress on Zophie and ask for her help. School also hasn’t been any help, with the few quizzes and one test I’ve failed because of my lack of focus currently, and all the depressed and hopeless people I see in the hallways and in my classes have just been a bonus to add to this brokenness I feel. I’ve only found myself falling deeper into this depressing abyss that I can’t climb out of. I feel so broken, Cindy. I feel alone. Not because I am alone, but because I’ve felt forced to distance myself from the people who remind me that I’m actually not alone.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this letter (I’m sorry it’s so long), today has been a rough day.

It started with my dad, so I bet you can guess where this is going. He was in the kitchen getting ready for work, warming up a pathetic slice of pizza for breakfast from last night’s dinner. I walked over to the pizza box sitting out on the counter. “Is there any left?” I asked in an attempt to get my dad to say anything to me. The microwaved beeped and my dad pulled out his slice. He walked over to me and I think he’s going to finally speak to me again, but instead he grabs the pizza box in front of me and throws it in the trash can behind me before walking out.

Childish, I think as I sigh. I grabbed my backpack and car keys and I drove to school, wondering what would happen if I happened to get in a car wreck on the way. If it were bad enough, my dad would be forced to cancel my procedure, since I’d be in a hospital bed already recovering from something else. I decided against ramming my car into a tree or anything else on the way though, feeling too weak to go through with it. From how the past few days have been, I also don’t feel like it’s right to fight it anymore, and I might even, dare I say, feel a small desire to receive the treatment now.

When I make it to school unfortunately safely, school seems the same as it has been the past few days, only the feeling is stronger, since this will be the last full day of school I’ll have this way. There’s too much emptiness in the crowded hallway. Everyone has scars somewhere on them, some fresh, some older, and most seeming on the inside from the broken expressions on everyone’s faces. I possess a feeling of urgency today, feeling like something must happen, since this is the last day before I get the Happy treatment, and I don’t know how things will be after that.

I find myself waiting all day, waiting for something good or bad that will make or break this indecisiveness to get the procedure. I wait for something extraordinary, be it something traumatic or wonderful.

In English class, I sat next to you as usual, and I looked over a few desks away and noticed Darrian wasn’t in class today, and I felt myself worrying for this acquaintance I’ve only talked to a few times, especially after seeing bandages on his arms too frequently.

You and I nodded to each other and casually said hello while I kept a brave face portrayed, refusing to let you suspect anything (though I doubt I will have the energy to do this if I even see you in English class tomorrow). Ms. Borland taught the usual, nothing sticking out, nothing I took as the universe giving me an obvious sign. In fact, it felt as if nothing was giving me a sign, as if I were so alone, not even any sort of sign could accompany me. I went home that day gravely disappointed, and throughout the rest of the day being at home, I still found myself waiting. I felt like I needed a story, like everyone else has one.

Owen’s parents from down my street had both had horrible pasts and full traumatic stories, so they gave Owen the treatment to protect him. Jeffery, the kid from Zophie’s school, had one of his sibling’s pass away, so he got the Happy treatment. Hori Pricher, you know the girl from our school, ended up getting the treatment after struggling through financial troubles with her family and never being able to afford anything but the bare minimum due to the expenses of antidepressants from overcharging pill pocketers. Isabella Hoffman, another girl from our school who received the Happy treatment after constant bullying and struggling with grades.

I needed a story like these people have, like most people have, or else I’m afraid I wouldn’t be remembered. I’m afraid I would be seen as someone who got it simply because they could, and I don’t know why that doesn’t sit well with me, because so many people get it just because they can already. Maybe it’s because I haven’t received any signs yet of whether I should get this procedure or not. I haven’t received my neat and clean traumatic story yet that adds to my sort of equation (like you mentioned with your little math equation metaphor a while ago). I haven’t received my story where I can pinpoint perfectly when the traumatic event started, what it did to me exactly, and when it ended. I would just be getting this because I can get it, not because of an important, perfectly clean, traumatic reason that people understand. People, of course, pay attention more to reasons they can understand. They pay attention more if the reason for asking for help is because of something perfectly traumatic, not because you’re depressed and you can’t figure out why, and not because there’s a lot of little things that may add up, because you can’t gather every little event in your head and specifically pinpoint each instance when you felt your depression growing stronger. Not because you feel your mind is so complicated that you can’t exactly put into words what you’re feeling or what’s happening.

Not because you’ve felt a lot of things happen in your life, so much to the point of where you’re not sure what parts are labeled as traumatic or not.

I would feel guilty is what I think I’m trying to say. Guilty for receiving something that is supposed to be labeled for the people with neat and clean traumatic lives, not the ones who live in a nice house, a nice neighborhood, and can afford everything from their parents to the point where they don’t even need a job.

As the hours passed by and I felt nothing happening, my mind fell into overthinking and a dark depression.

Nothing happened today, just like the rest of the days lately. We checked up on each other and talked about whatever, and I told you my usual lie of being okay I’ve been telling you this week.

I plopped on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I felt worthless and toxic. I had lied to you for months, I had made my dad go through the trouble of scheduling and paying for the Happy treatment for me, only for me to tell him I don’t want it after all. I had felt depressed for as long as I remember, while having everything handed to me throughout my life.

I winced. That last point hurt the most to think about, since that’s been my whole life.

What is wrong with me? I thought in my head. I thought back to what my dad said, telling me I’m simply just too selfish to accept help. Selfish, selfish, selfish. The word replayed in my head. I was spiraling down with every thought into a dark hole, but I couldn’t have you to help me get out of it this time. I couldn’t have anyone. The only help I could have right now was what my dad was giving me, being the Happy treatment.

Maybe this was the answer after all. The fact that I’ve seen no signs today may be a sign in itself, telling me the answer is the treatment, since that’s my only option at this point. With today being a day of waiting for some sort of sign or anything to happen, maybe the fact that nothing happened is just a sign to show how selfish and ungrateful I really am. Nothing horrible happened, yet I’m depressed and I feel so alone for reasons I caused myself. Maybe this Happy treatment won’t only simply make me happier, but with being happier comes being more grateful, and maybe this treatment is just what I need to fix me and my family, to fix all the toxic things I’ve done.

:) :) :)

I’m writing this last section of this letter in the morning of the day I receive the Happy treatment. My dad spoke to me this morning just a moment ago for the first time in days. He said one sentence, “I’m driving you to school then I’ll be back around 1 to check you out.”

“Okay,” I said quietly, not questioning it.

I’ve explained to you now that I didn’t plan on actually getting it. I was going to cancel it or I was going to find some way to get out of it, and yes, I know I still can. I can get in my car right now and drive off. I can not go into the front doors of the school after my dad drops me off, but I can go in the woods and wait it out. I can walk down the street instead to a restaurant and wait it out there. Even if I made it to the point of making it into my dad’s car around 1 to go to my procedure, if I were desperate enough, I could jump out of the car while he was stopped at a red light or even still driving.

But I can’t do it, Cindy. I’m just too tired.

Maybe if I talked to you now, you could talk some sense into me and you’d tell me something like “You’re just overthinking, this isn’t you,” but I just can’t do it, and I’m so sorry.

You may think it’s overthinking and self-hate, but these past few days have helped me realize that this is the answer. This is what is going to fix me.

My dad is waiting downstairs for me to drive me to school, so I have to go.

I hope you can forgive me for everything I’ve done and what I’m going to do today.

I love you, Cindy.

I’m sorry.

Eva