She began to get letters through her front door, telling her she must go to meetings that she had been putting of for weeks no months. The letters were a few sentences telling her where she had to be, and when she had to be there. She never liked the meetings they made her go to, they sit her in a chair and ask her questions that she would never want to answer truthfully. She was constantly asked if she was okay when she was at one of these meetings, she would always reply with one of her sweet lies that everyone wanted to hear. But the words left a bitter taste in her mouth, the lies that seeped out of her chapped cracked lips were slowly killing her from the inside out. Yet she carried on as if it was nothing, because the therapist's would all tell her the same thing, over and over again always the same words to leave their perfectly red painted lips. It would always be the same look in their blueish grey eyes that reminded her of her mother so much, that whenever her therapist looked at her she screwed her eyes shut avoiding any and all thoughts and memories of the women who was once there, and now is gone.
