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"Selective mutism." The words pound in my head like a headache, a hammer. "Panic disorder, social anxiety.  And we suspect dysthymia, as well." 

I don't really know what to think. Everything has happened so fast, escalated quickly doesn't seem to be able to cover it. The speed at which things have happened cannot be compared to an escalator, instead, a rocket, a jet pack, something like that.

I'd woken up, half a day after I'd passed out in the bathroom, according to my manager and members. In a hospital, a cliched, expected set up. White bedspread, curtains, walls, the soft sound of beeping and the scent of sterile metal and cleaning detergent. And the first thing I'd done? Cliched, too. I'd cried. 

Somewhat like a teenage romance novel, those branded by reading teachers as crappy and trashy, except without the romance, without the loving significant other, and for completely different reasons.
Because for me, the tears weren't tears of joy, it wasn't, 'oh, I'm alive, and I can see you again, and I'm so happy and we are going to spend the rest of our lives together!'. It was 'I'm alive, and I have to see everyone again, and I have to speak to everyone and deal with everyone and explain this to everyone, and I just can't.'
Of course, my members gathered around the room didn't help a single bit.

Somehow I'd felt as ashamed as I probably would have for attempting suicide, embarrassed not for attempting, but for failing to succeed. It was as if this whole big part of me that I'd tried to hide from everyone else had just come out into the open, for everyone else to see. Stupid little Kibum cannot hide his own problems from anyone.

And from there the company had taken over, sent in a therapist, who'd prodded me with questions I'd refused to answer until my manager had forced them out of me. And now, I was being officially, clinicall