HIPAA

“Thank you for coming. Before we begin, I must inform you that I am required by law to report any thoughts of self harm or…”

(This is me tuning out.)

I reminisce of the sound of the fifth pill bottle bouncing off the kitchen floor in its permanence. The feeling of accomplishment sweeping over me. 

But I am not safe to say. They will take away my birthday. I want to return to my cell and wear my concrete muzzle as I swim in the coolness of the prison floor. I practice breathing with the tides of hopelessness and anxiety and drift off to sleep. The prison floor soothes, unlike my therapist. Like my therapist, the floor reminds me I am alone.

I scream through my pores, but no one hears. “Do you have interest in being a peer counselor?” I am asked. I would have to report thoughts of self harm, making me ineffective to the only people I understand. I am not alone in being alone.