Moment With Mike.

This was the moment that I fell out with Mike, a staff at my treatment center. We did patch things up, which I will add later, but here's this tid-bit.

6/28/14
"Well that's good then, he works hard for your girls' education and stuff."
At this point in the conversation, I was so much more than just plain 'done'. I was livid. I mean, I came here to get help and to be understood, and this guy wasn't even doing that! I totally takes my dad's side, I bet he's a s****y father too. What the f*****g hell! I want to leave. Go home. Go somewhere. Go motherfucking anywhere!
"No!! No!! You don't get it!! God, why does NOBODY get it??!" I semi shouted, before I made my sloppy exit out of the dayroom, and back into my bedroom.
My sanctuary. It was more of my home to me than my own home back home.
And yet, this room, it was my prison. My hell. My worthless existence.
But it was mine. No one else's---well, my roommate's too.
But who cares? I'm home.
But I wasn't as level headed at that.
This is what I was actually thinking:
'What the hell?? Why did he even give me a poetry book? ---OH! The poetry book!! I bet he'll want it back...that's what my dad would always do, either take or give back, or get back things that he had given/lent you, making you feel like complete and utter s**t about having getting it in the first place. The book, the book! Let me get it! It's in my underwear drawer because staff aren't allowed to give gifts, and I'm not gonna be caught with this when it could get him in trouble!'
But right then, all I wanted was trouble with this man, so I pulled open my sock drawer, dug out the thin book, and proceeded to wrap myself in my blankets before going back out there. Actually, I did that in a haze of hell, but who even keeps track?
"Here," I said, as I stalked up to him, years pouring from their ducts, "I don't want this anymore."
"No, Alleigh, I gave this to you, it's yours." Says Mike, shoving the book back at me.
"NO! I DON'T WANT IT! YOU'LL PROBABLY TAKE IT BACK ANYWAYS, SO HERE! TAKE IT!!" I shoved it back at him, dropping it, I turned back and proceeded once agai into my room.
Upon entrance, I paused, bawling the whole time, red, hot, hateful and hurtful tears, and looking at Marissa for a second, I stumbled my way into our minuscule, shared bathroom, minus shower.
I melted in there. Falling to the floor, I wrap my blankets around all of me tightly, and proceeded to just cry. Sticky tears just gushing from my eyes, which were beginning to burn.
How could he not understand? How could he actually think that my father was a good, generous man?
I should tell him that. Yes, I think I will. Right now.
And I haul myself back up, open that stingy door, and shuffling out with excess amounts of determination.
"Where are you going?" Marissa asked me gently. Friendly-like, for she was my only true friend there.
"To tell Mike that he is wrong!" And I stomp out.
I see Mike, he's standing in the nurses' station doorway talking with lots of shrugs to the other staff member.
"Hey! My dad is NOT a good man! He's a greedy , assholic, b*****d that's never given us anything in our lives! He's gonna die in his pile of money, and not give one s**t about it!"
Mike had turned around, and, sudden understanding adorned his features.
"Oh," he said, "I completely misunderstood you, I am so, so sorry." He added in his soft way that made you just know that he cared out the a*****e for you.
But, like I said, I was done.
I was crying. A fat, un-hot mess that needed to be euthanized.
"Alleigh---"
"No, no, it's fine." I say, turning away from him.
"All---"
"It's fine!!" I snap back, hardly turning to face him.
That was one of the defining points of my treatment. It marked the day that I stopped talking to Mike, one of the only staff that I was most attached to.
It went on like that for a while.
I would always make efforts from that point forward to avoid Mike. Not look him in the eyes. Not even be around him.
But one night I was avoiding going to bed, and was illegitimately sitting in the armchair on the one side of the dayroom, just to the left of one of the couches, the other side having the same layout.
Tim was sitting, seemingly unconcerned---which, of course, is how they do it, making you seem like you're only putting on the show for yourself, it's like what parents do to kids who are being annoying and attention seeking.
He was drinking a chocolate milk.
That, I remember specifically.
I hear the door leading from the attachment and hallway that leads to North, the other side, being pushed open, and someone walking towards the dayroom.
Tim had heard it too, but he didn't get up yet, just waiting for the perpetrator to walk up to you.
Mike came into my field of vision.
F**k.
F**k it all to motherfucking hell.

Author's Note

Thoughts/comments are highly appreciated!