Basically, this is the finished version of this monologue. I submitted this as part of my university Creative Writing portfolio. I may work on this a bit more and develop it, buuut that depends on how much work I’ll already have to do.

Anywaiz, I hope you enjoy :- )

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Analysis, by Emma Jayne Kitchener 

These four cream walls look all too familiar to me now. Dotted upon them are certificates and photos of sweeping landscapes - the latter being supposedly calming to those who view it. I’m given a smile by the plump lady behind the desk, and her reassurance that He won’t be long. I walk about the room, my worn-down heels tapping disruptively against the cold laminate flooring, reading these certificates as if they were new to me.

I’m tired. It’s His fault I can’t sleep.
I’m not allowed to take codeine to help me sleep these days.

A girl leaves His room. I’ve seen her a few times before, and I swear she gets more repulsive with each session. She gets fatter. You can see her blubber beneath her dress, screaming to escape that wretched piss-yellow material. And her sickly skin gets even more blotched with redness and tear stains each time. But what grates me most about this vile creature is how she’ll look directly toward you with her wet, soppy, blinking eyes – red from all the fucking sobbing – and then will dramatically turn away as if she isn’t begging for your coos of sympathy and affection.

I’m really fucking tired, actually.

The plump lady clears her throat, to drag my attention away from the snivelling misery that just left His room.
“He’s ready for you now, dear,” I’m told, by a voice so sweet and laced with pity.
            I push my way through the bulky doors, the gold knob jabbing between my ribs. When I first started coming here, those doors seemed so daunting… They were too tall, and too wide. As I was waiting for my first session, in fact, I scrutinised those doors the whole time I was sat in that room with the plump lady. I had already conjured up ridiculous ideas of the man that sat on the other side, waiting for me – He was a monster to me then. I remember wondering if the great, sturdy doors were a sign of His own insecurities about masculinity – some men buy big cars, I thought He may have overcompensated with grandeur decorating schemes.         I don’t think that anymore.
Either way, the doors were always impressive. Thick with dark mahogany and finished off with His name in slim, gold letters, they now conjure up ideas of safety to me. Behind those doors, that’s where my escapism is – my Neverland.

I see Him smile as I step into His room, and I instantly feel at peace.
Whenever I walk into the room, He smiles, offers me a seat and asks me how I’m doing. Today is no different. Some days I burst into hysterics, and scream and scratch at my skin. Those aren’t good days. Other days I simply flop into the chair across from His desk, and keep my complete focus on Him. Today, I choose to sit in calm.
“How am I doing?” I twist my brittle hair around my index finger, my eyes entwined in His stare. “How do you think I’m fucking doing?”                  As I say this, He leans over his records, fingers interlocked beneath His chin, and asks me again: “So, how are you doing?”
Of course, I tell him. I always do. Every single detail of my fucking week… Like what time I went to sleep (3:46am on Monday, 9pm on Tuesday and 7:33am this morning), the guy that offered me a seat on the tube and spent the duration of the journey looking down my top, and the new breakfast cereal I tried and didn’t like.

I’ve seen His family. Not personally, obviously, but I’ve seen the photo frame He kept on the desk. The one He now hides in His drawer when it’s my time. They’re nothing but a typical family unit. Uncle Sam, or whoever invented the bullshit surrounding nuclear families, would have been so proud.           There’s a girl, I’d say about 10 years old, grasping His hand like He’s her possession, and looking generally bored and unintelligent and tedious. And a boy, a few years younger than his skinny sister, gripping onto the hip of his mother… His wife.
She’s plain. Much too plain for Him. It made me sick to look at her. She seemed to know about me looking at that photo, and gave me her most pretentious, plain smile.

He knows now.
He found out the day I saw that fucking photo. Although I’m pretty sure He knew before.

So now whenever I give Him that look – the look that conveys only part of the urge I have for Him – He simply shrugs it off and says, “I’m your doctor.”