Little Talks || A story based on the song

Pre

Little Talks
Based on the song by; Of Monsters and Men

When I was four I started therapy. Most four year olds aren't bothering with therapy. Most four year olds aren't potty-trained or even capable of forming fill sentences, but I could do both and more. I was advanced, whatever, doesn't matter. I went because my parents were going through a divorce and my mom was worried that it would affect me. My mom cared about things like mental health and wellness, she was also a hippie. During that time I was also experiencing the worst nightmares ever. Not only were they just very rough and scary, they were very vivid. I always felt like I was actually there in my dreams. It got to the point where I just wouldn't sleep. I still remember a lot of those dreams. I had my last traumatizing dream whenever I stopped wetting the bed at night, probably when I started first grade. I also stopped therapy, dad said the therapist cleared me, but I heard him crying on the phone because our healthcare refused to pay for it anymore. Dad also cared a lot about me. He promised my mom that he would do all the caring when she died. But when he couldn't find a way to help me, he stopped caring.

My mom was the only person my dad truly loved. He didn't want any kids, but he's only decent to us because my mom loved us. I think my mom loved us more than she loved him. She always wanted kids, and he loved her enough to have kids. She knew she was gonna have three kids, but she thought they'd be three girl's. She was wrong about that, she got a girl and two boys. I know she didn't love my brothers any less, but I know she loved me differently. I was her girl, and she waited a very long time for me.

She died when I was six, from bone cancer. I didn't cry when my grandma picked me up from kindergarten and told me the news in her old mercedes. In fact, I walked right through my front door, past dad and Harley and Greyson sitting in the living room, upstairs and into my room, where I locked my door, and spent three hours listening to The Fresh beat band on my old CD player. This was the first time I ever stressed cleaning. This is how I started to cope. I didn't cry at her funeral, and I didn't cry in therapy either. I didn't have much to talk about. My parents divorced when I was way younger, and my dad got full custody of us so she could move into hospice. I didn't see her that much anymore, and when I did see her she was very tired and not fun. That's how I coped with her death. Now, I hate myself for thinking of my mom that way, but at least I wasn't sad. My grandma died almost a year later.

Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4qYKELx59Xd5gJX28sMhnT?si=fP2oTytoQ2iEsmsuFxWeIg