The Words I Wish I Said

Chapter 1

"So why do you think you're here?" The room is a medium sized room with an office corner and the rest a lounge area. The chair that Dr. Lily sits in a white leather chair that matches the couch that sits next to it. I sit in the soft, big bean bag that girls my age beg their moms to get for them. I've only seen videos of them but never one in real life. It's like laying on a big cloud that's really soft under your fingertips. The greenish gray color pours off the walls and into the energy of the room. All of it together gives me the strength to put my thoughts together in preparation for what's about to happen.

When I don't answer her question she sighs a little and I hear the scratch of her pen writing something in her notebook. "My mother told me to."

She stops writing suddenly, studying me as if she doesn't know what to say to me. Maybe she will tell me that i'm broken at the end of this or that i'm perfectly fine cause she doesn't have time to deal with me. Honestly I don't even have time to deal with myself so I won't blame her. If I lose another therapist my mother will probably lecture me a little and then hug me for a couple of minutes but I'll be ok on my own again.

"Do you think you should be here?" Her question cuts off my overthinking. Should I be here? I've never had a therapist ask me that and it completely caught me off guard. In my previous sessions it's always the same questions like "Why are you here?" or "Do you feel yourself?" and "Why don't you talk more to people?" and so on.

"No." I say as my finger slips down to the hole in my jeans that exposes my knee. I twist my finger through the string that sticks out, the soft cotton spinning around in my fingers. I hear her scribble something down again then nothing. It's quiet. I feel her eyes weighing on me.

"Why not?" She says in her calm tone. Her voice reminds me of the sounds you hear when the grass hits each other in the wind. It's not scratchy and not loud. But it's still there and you hear it.

"I'm fine." I feel like that's the most common and boring answer to use for any question and it's only 50% true for me. I am fine but I'm not at the same time. My life is this perfectly constructed building with no cracks. It's not the best building by any means but it's sturdy. I have a job, straight A's at school with a 3.8 GPA, a supporting family, orchestra classes after school and more. It sounds good and it is. But I'm not. I'm slowly sinking and drowning in water. I actually did almost drown once. I remember from that the feeling you have as it's happening. You're in the water and you're swimming and swimming upwards but you're not going anywhere. And at some point you see the sun and you're so close to air that you think you're there. You imagine yourself breathing in the fresh air only to feel the sting of the water going in your nose instead. And that's when you start to panic and struggle. The fight or flight kicks in and you forget the difference from seeing the sun above and underwater. They look the same and you start to think it's not going to happen for you and that you're stuck. That's it.

"I know it's hard to open up after trying different therapists for a while now and none of them working for you but I really do want to help. I just need you to help me too. You need to just try your best to tell me how you're feeling and then I can help you in return. Can you give me a chance? Just one maybe?" I look up at her. Her blond hair is twisted into a bun behind her head and she has a long sleeve shirt on. It's a white lace material that hangs around her forearms. The shirt is tucked into her green jeans with a brown belt hugging around her waist through her jeans. She bites her lips gently, anticipating my answer and hope filling her light blue eyes.

I start to feel bad for her, I mean I know my mom is paying her to try and fix me but I can see that she genuinely wants to help. And me being closed off and distant isn't helping her at all. I rest my head back on the bean bag and stare at the ceiling. "I have always been independent with my feelings. When my friends and I talk it's about them. I listen. I'm the therapist. Not the patient. I just don't know how to be a patient or to tell you everything I want to say." I close my eyes shut tight knowing I just poured out a lot of words. My mouth just emptied all the words sitting on my tongue like a fountain of water.