The Waiting Room

As I enter the waiting room full of people, it dawns on me that I’m with the cool kids. Yes, in my mid-grade hypomanic state, I identify with these people as possibly ones who see life as shiny as I do.  They look solemnly down at the floor or their hands because surely being in a mental health waiting room can’t be something we’ve all aspired to achieve.  I clearly don’t recall it as being one of the things I must do in life. Yet, here I am, and I’m pretty sure our journey was sidelined by a paranoid or delusional based something we did. That, we have in common.

My mexi-blonde hair is done up in swirls and streaked in colors of the sun.  My make up applied generously finished with cherry red lips.  Clothes seductively clinging to my sexual body.  Expensive high heels that force my body to sway here and there. I perk around and smile at people. An old retired Navy man with a submarine emblem on his hat watches as I pass by, he smiles and says in his California accent, “Hey guuurrl, I like yer fur.  “It’s faux fur,” I answer politely.  We smile.  Most people smile back, but some gripped by the thoughts in their heads, do not look up to see where the beautiful scent or the click clack click clack click clack sound of heels is coming from.

The room is simple with just simple furniture on white ever so white tile floors.  No pictures on the walls just PSA announcements on how we can all attain stable mental health through diet, exercise, therapy and pills and pills and pills and more pills. A coffee maker percolates in the corner with small styrofoam cups close by.  Styrofoam is bad for the environment I think instantly.

{Note: My favorite line is “The room is simple with just simple furniture on white ever so white tile floors.”}

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