I'm HAPPY, see?

because I'm dead?

Might as well be. Along with the other poor souls who found themselves in her office to seek chemicals to give them the courage to face life.

I was surprisingly nervous to see her. I've always hated hospitals and have a pretty extensive history of panic attacks and anxiety when confronted with such an environment. Even if this visit would be free of needles and blood, I was convinced it would hurt just the same.

As my dad opened the door leading into the waiting room, images of crazed psychiatric patients rocking back and forth muttering to themselves flooded my mind. I held my breath and...

Alas, the room more resembled my family doctor's office, with Wheel of Fortune droning on into meaningless soap operas on a TV mounted on the back wall and a handful of strangers trying to distract themselves with meaningless gossip magazines.

I wondered why each of them were there. Were there some like me? Some that couldn't stand to helplessly ruin themselves any longer? Some that have a complex so deeply embedded into the folds of their brain they're sure no amount of "talk therapy" would ever uproot it? Do they, too, suffer from a voice in their head telling them they're never good enough and if only they'd try just a little bit more maybe, maybe they could be?

"Megan?", a voice came from around the corner of the room, "Come on back."

Her hair, platinum blond and teased, was the first thing that caught my attention. Ms. Nebe? I wondered to myself for a split second and almost laughed out loud but caught myself. This was no time to be laughing.

"Nice to meet you, Megan," she said as she sat down at her desk surrounded with indescribable drawings along the wall. I began to wonder if those were failed attempts by her patients to map out the inner workings of their emotions but she interrupted my thoughts.

"So, why are you here to see me today?"

I couldn't help myself and laughed a little at that one, took a deep breath, and began.