Safe (Rewritten)

Caraphernelia

"What's so good about

Picking up the pieces?"

-Pierce the Veil,

Caraphernelia

"Paige? Paige, come on. It's not that hard. We're friends, right?" Meranda, my therapist, says.

I don't exactly know how to respond. Am I friends with my therapist, or is that stupid? Times like this, I am aware how abnormal my life can be. Most seventeen year old girls wouldn't be spending their Saturday afternoon's on the cliche tan couch in their therapist's office. I, on the other hand, have no choice. It's either this, or awkwardly staring at my parents as they try to get me to respond.

In the past two years, my relationship with my parents has drastically changed. When I was younger, time with my parents was the best thing ever. Lucas came along, then. I wanted to seem older, so I shut them out. Now I'm unresponsive for a completely different reason.

"Paige, we both know something is wrong. All I want to know is what. You know what. So tell me." Meranda has that look on her face that my previous therapists have all given me. Determined and forcefully patient.

How original, Meranda.

Like most days spent on this office, I don't say anything. I don't really know why. Maybe my subconscious mind doesn't want to admit to another person how broken I am.

Way to go, Paige. Really getting over that depression. Not.

I knew why she wanted to know, why my parents and teachers and old friends are all curious. I would be, too if someone close to me stopped speaking to me and shut out the world.

So, yeah. I could understand it. I just didn't really want it thrown in my face that there was logic to it. The longer I can put off communicating with my parents, the better.

Well.

I sound like a bitch.

Meranda and I engage in a staring contest, which consists of her leaning forward and me going into statue mode. It feels like a rerun of every other visit.

She's my fourth therapist in two years, and thus far, she's chosen the same route as all my other ones. Ask what's wrong, ask again, play firm. The next step is just giving up. That's the one thing Meranda seems to not want to do.

Suddenly, she sits straight and I recoil. This is not standard procedure for the staring contest. Usually, I just sit there blankly until they just sigh, end the session, and call my parents. Everyone else has followed that game plan.

"You don't trust people. And, tell me if I'm wrong, you definitely do not trust the opposite sex. You're always wearing long sleeves and when you sit, your posture is slouched. Also, you always wear your hair down. Do you know what this tells me?" I don't answer, so she does on, "It tells me that you've been violated. Your subconscious mind wants to protect you from being close to others, so you make yourself appear uninviting. And why is that?"

I'm too surprised to even glare at her. I mean, whoa. None of my other therapists ever went into so much detail, with me that is, and were so upfront about it. Almost against my will, my mouth opens and I begin, "I. . ."

Very articulate.

Meranda's brown eyes soften. "I'm right. You were physically violated, weren't you, Paige?"

I don't respond, desperate to hide behind my passive front I've carefully constructed for moments like this. Instead, I cross my arms and lean back.

She sighs and runs a hand through her dark red hair. "So that's all I'm getting," She sighs again. "Well, I guess that's progress." Meranda stands up, brushing her jeans off. She offers a hand in my direction, but I ignore it and stand up on my own. She utters one more sigh before walking me to the door, telling me that out next appointment is in two weeks, and that by then she wants me to socialize a little. Which means speaking. Which is something I plan on not doing.