sixteen
"How dare you speak to her like that."
I am sitting on the couch, my lonely mother in front of me. Her eyes are rimmed red, her shirt worn. She's staring at me like I am her worst nightmare.
"She was disrespecting me," I tell her.
"I don't care if she was disrespecting you!" My mother screams. "She is your doctor and she is trying to help you."
"It's been three years, mum," I say. "I am not getting better. Is she really helping me?"
My mother stares brokenly at me. I stare straight back, my eyes mad. She runs her hands through her hair and let's her hands rest on her neck. "What have you done with my daughter?"
And out of all of the things that I hate - my migraines, my mind, my blackouts - they don't hurt as bad as finding out your own mother doesn't know you.
