Slow Suicide

"I don't even know you and I'm worried about you", she said with her wide and too perfect smile. "Will you accept help?" Silence. Both sets of eyes were burning holes into the side of my head as I averted my eyes downward and pretended to ponder the texture of the blueish greenish carpet beneath our feet. "You need to answer the question. Will you accept help?" she repeated. "Do I have a choice?" , I snapped back at her still looking down towards the ground. "What are you afraid of? Don't you care about your mother, your family, your friends?", she asked "Of course I do", I responded "But no one can help me. All who have tried to fix me have failed. No doctor, medication, or therapy will ever change that." She quickly typed some notes on her computer. "You do not know that", she said in the most phony version of sympathy I had ever heard. Silence. "If things get worse we may have to use force. You wouldn't want that. For all this is is a slow form of suicide." Silence "We are just going to sit here until I say yes, I have no choice." She let out a piercing and bothersome giggle in attempt to lighten up the mood. "So does that mean you will accept?" Silence "This is no question, this is no offer. I have no choice", I stated through clenched teeth "Good! I'm glad we've made some progress, we will call you in a few days."