Idle Thoughts of a Basket Case

Summary: Sa5m is going through the world of high school one day at a time. She is a thoughtful teenager, but where do all of those thoughts go? Who do you tell your deepest secrets to, when the whole world thinks you're a pariah…

This is starting out Pre-Will so as to not get you confused. When he comes into the story, you'll know.


Who am I? Do I even know? Basic questions and facts could be answered, but do I really know… who I am?

My name is Sa5m.

Yes... the five is silent.

Simple facts about me? I live in Lodi, New Jersey, and it is the saddest excuse for a town I've ever seen. My favorite color is black. My mother is a lawyer and overly attentive. My father was an asshole who left us on our own when I was just ten. And I like, no love, twizzlers.

I started with my new therapist, Dr. McCain, today after my mother realized I was getting nowhere with my last therapist. This would be the fifth therapist she would try on me. She's convinced I have some mentally depressed illness that needs to be treated by a professional. I think she's hoping that fifth times the charm.

If I was being honest with myself, I actually enjoyed this new therapist. ... Actually, enjoyed is a bit too strong feeling of a word. I would reword that as slightly tolerable.

I met with her in your typical psychiatrist's office. The first time I did this, I was nervous as shit. Now, it's just something to pass the time by. As I came in and sat down on one of the couches, she asked me if I wanted anything to drink to make me more comfortable in her presence I guess. I didn't ask for anything so we just started on the session. She asked me main questions, ones that did not run too deep, and talked to me about herself. This was a surprise because I've never really heard a psychiatrist talk about themselves. They usually talk about you like they know everything about your life.

She was a little bit of fresh air, and I relaxed around her. Then she asked me if there was anything I would tell her. I knew that psychiatrists don't spew your secrets to anyone, even if I was a bit skeptical at first... So I told her I felt like no one listens or tries to understand me. She nodded and took on a thoughtful look. She then turned to me told me to write down my thoughts; put it in a what she called a memory box. This memory box did not have to be fancy. She said that it could even be a shoe box for all she cared. So I took an old shoe box from my mother that she was going to throw out. It was a larger type of shoe box so I guessed that it cased a pair of boots.

She told me to write down my thoughts. Any thoughts. I was to bring the box in with these thoughts every week that I saw her. It was a way for her to get to know me without me having to talk. I didn't like talking so this idea was good with me.

But where would I start?