I'm On Your Side

1 | The Universe Has, Once Again, Failed Me

IF I COULD, I would rewind my life back up to the part where my dumbass made the choice to vent out to my mom about how fucked up my day was and how I wanted to kill myself so badly.

Of course, that last part was a joke (just for the sake of this story).

I mean, I wasn't going to kill myself, but to my mom anything was possible so when my dumbass self decided to include my suicidal thoughts in my vent she made no hesitation to call up my therapist and tell her about my vent.

I mean, talk about an invasion of privacy! That was supposed to be only between us.

Damn, I should really get friends.

But it's not like they'd do any better keeping my vent a secret. I mean you can't trust anyone nowadays, trust me.

Actually, don't.

Because you can't trust anyone (I just realized how ironic that was), but what I'm saying is true.

Anyways.

When my mom decided to tell my therapist, she recommended a therapy group because apparently it would "help me feel less alone and ease my depression (her words, not mine)."

When I heard that, I laughed because, let's be real, the only alone I'll be feeling is more lonely after the therapy group.

I went to a therapy group before and it consisted of two girls who were already friends and me as the outcast (like always).

"What're you thinking about?" my mom asks me from the driver's seat.

I hate this question: it's like if I'm thinking something and not saying it, it's most likely confidential (it could also not be and you just need someone to urge you to say what you're thinking out loud, but I know better than telling my mom what's going on in my head. I mean, look where I am!), or I could always just not be thinking about anything and just admiring the scenery through the window.

I hate the assumption that just because you're looking at the window, you're immediately thinking about something.

"I'm just thinking about all the things I could be doing instead of going to a therapy group," I say sarcastically.

"Like what?" my mom asks and I roll my eyes. Of course, she'd think my sarcastic comment was actually a comment!

"Mom, I was being sarcastic!" I say. My mom wrinkles her eyebrows at me. "I didn't actually mean what I said: it was a joke. What I meant was that going to a therapy group is going to waste my time."

"Oh! You could've just..." my mom's voice drains off as she merges onto the highway. She looks on her left shoulder before putting on her indicator and driving onto the highway before looking at me. "Look, I know your past experience on trying out a therapy group wasn't that great, but, you know, I did sign you up for a therapy group at a different place and it's for a different reason now."

I wrinkle my eyebrows. "A different reason?"

"Yeah," my mom says. "Apparently, they sort you into different groups based on your needs."

"On my needs?" I question.

My mom sighs. "I'm not an expert on this, Isha. I'm just telling you what Dr. Mead told me."

My mom is right―she isn't an expert on psychology or whatever the therapy group consists of―but it irritates me to hear her say that you're sorted into different therapy groups based on your needs.

Like, what are we: lab rats?

And now we're being treated like our inner thoughts are things that are holding us back and we need extra support for them in order to be "normal?" I don't know if that makes sense, but that's how it feels in my head when my mom says those words.